


We will meet back on this road

by Sunnyrea



Series: Five Years Ago and Three Thousand Miles Away [3]
Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: F/M, M/M, Original Character(s)
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-09-17
Updated: 2013-11-04
Packaged: 2017-12-26 21:38:30
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 3
Words: 40,720
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/970562
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Sunnyrea/pseuds/Sunnyrea
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>John and Mary are married, Sherlock and John's relationship is almost back to the way it used to be but everything will change when Mary falls ill. Will John come through it again and how will it once again change his relationship with Sherlock?</p><p>[Sequel to "And I'm Five Years Ago and Three Thousand Miles Away"]</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Mary

**Author's Note:**

> I wanted to warn ahead of time that this first chapter deals a lot with cancer. I have tried to stay true to facts but I am not a doctor, so any mistakes are my own lack of knowledge. I should warn though that if this is a delicate subject to you, that you should perhaps avoid.
> 
> The title is from Mumford & Sons "The Enemy"

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _John just wishes being a doctor could cancel it all out, cash in the karma. Couldn’t the lives he’s saved – the hundreds of lives – balance out and give him this one life he wants to keep?_

Sherlock and John sit on the floor of John’s living room, photos and papers scattered around them. Sherlock keeps crawling from pile to pile, switching crime scene photos to the wrong victims and back again. John refuses to rise to the bait and ask, ‘what are you doing?’

“I’m done with my essays, what about yours?” Mary asks as she comes out of the door to the study in the back corner.

John just points at Sherlock lying flat on his stomach with the three victim photos right in front of his nose. 

Mary smiles. “Does the genius want tea?”

Sherlock grunts in reply and John clears his throat. “The normal mind does, if you please.”

“I please.”

“Yes, tea, sugar and milk,” Sherlock says suddenly so John tenses sharply with surprise.

Mary laughs and nods as she crosses the room then on into the kitchen.

“Must you?” John hisses at Sherlock.

“What, speak?”

“You know what I mean.”

Sherlock turns his head to the side to look at John leaning against the arm chair. “She did ask if I wanted tea.”

“Then answer her the first time!”

Sherlock gives John a withering look then turns back to the photos. John rolls his eyes then sits up and shifts closer to Sherlock. He peers over Sherlock’s shoulder to see if Sherlock’s changed anything, left any clues, because, as much as John tries to resist, he is so curious. Sherlock does not rise to John’s bait either of the ‘please tell me’ pose so John sits back, chewing the inside of his cheek.

“At least the carpet is more comfortable.”

“Hmm?” Sherlock pipes up, eyes still on the photos.

“Better than the wood flooring you’ve got back in at your flat.”

“Missing Baker Street, are we?”

“Are you?” John snorts. “With the amount of time you spend at our house do you remember what Baker Street looks like?”

“Oh yes,” Mary moans from the kitchen with a perfect long suffering tone.

Sherlock only cocks an eyebrow over his shoulder at John and smiles. “I can only imagine the terrible things which would happen lest I leave you two alone, possibly cleanliness or pregnancy; can’t have that.”

John hears Mary start to crack up as he sputters. “You… why would you…”

Sherlock smirks and turns back to the photos. He lies still for about ten seconds more then shoots up to sitting, legs crossed in front of him. He puts his hands palm together and twiddles his fingers under his chin.

“It is right in front of me.”

“Clearly.”

“Be serious, John.”

“You have a woman stabbed in her flat, a man stabbed in the first woman’s girlfriend’s flat, and the man’s girlfriend stabbed in…. where was it?”

“The first woman’s sister’s flat.”

“And this isn’t just some love triangle because –“

“Because that’s what Lestrade thinks and, thus, so do you?”

John scoffs. “Just because Greg says –“

“Oh yes, Greg.”

“You’re still mad because he and I got a pint and I didn’t invite you, aren’t you?”

Sherlock snorts. “Puerile.” 

“You wouldn’t have wanted to go anyway, Sherlock, so you really shouldn’t be upset about it. I think you were on a case at the time so –“

“I wasn’t.”

“And you don’t even drink!”

Sherlock makes a ‘humph’ type noise and snatches his mobile off the couch on the other side of the photos. “It is _not_ a lover’s quarrel turned to murder.”

“Then what?”

“Then tea.” John and Sherlock look up at the same time to see Mary standing beside them, tea cups in hand. “I would tell you not to put it on the floor but I doubt you’ll listen.”

“You could bring us a tray,” Sherlock points out.

Mary glares half-heartedly and John most definitely does not giggle.

“I could.” She hands Sherlock his tea and then leans over the taller man to give John his.

“Thank you.” John smiles and winks.

Mary just raises her eyebrows back then walks behind him toward the front door and out into the hall with an exaggerated sway of her hips. John watches her go and nearly spills his tea as she turns the corner and up the stairs out of sight.

“Try not to drool,” Sherlock says with annoyance.

John hums quietly and smirks. “What happens, happens.”

“Oh, do kill me again.”

John laughs. “Touchy tonight?”

“This case! The show is too obvious, too melodrama; someone jealous of someone else and too many clues with too many options. I could give you a case for murder for every family member and ten friends each.”

“Please don’t.”

“The sheer amount of physical evidence left could fuel an entire two hour comedy, complete with alternate endings to amuse the tittering crowd.”

“That doesn’t sound half bad…”

“John!” Sherlock groans.

“Drink some of your tea.”

Sherlock picks up his cup from where he’d placed it on the floor and downs the entire thing in three rapid gulps. He gasps loudly and grimaces as he puts the empty cup down, obviously burning his throat with such a display.

“Maybe it’s that thing you said once; the simplest answer is often the right one?”

“And often it is not.”

John sighs and rubs a hand over his face, picking up the evidence bag of business cards from the one flat. “Or maybe it is all a big mistake and the murders linking up is just some crazy happenstance coincidence, now that would be a film.”

Sherlock’s hands stop moving in the air where they’d been circling and his head snaps around toward John. John halts with his teacup at his lips and stares.

“What did you say?”

“Uh,” John blinks, “about the film?”

“Coincidence!”

“You don’t really think these three murders are just coincidences with each other?”

Sherlock grins. “Oh, they certainly are not.”

“Then what?”

“Dear John, as I have said before, your abilities as a source of inspiration are truly invaluable.” He grabs John’s face and kisses John’s forehead before jumping up to his feet, sloshing John’s tea all over John’s jeans.

“Fuck! Sherlock!”

“It’s not three murders, John, it is one!”

“Sherlock, you –“

“One murder disguised by others, so only one real murder!” Sherlock grabs his coat off a hook by the door and throws it over his shoulders with one of his insane cackles. “Just one!”

“Sherlock, I don’t –“

“Have no fear, John. Stay and play house –“

“Play hou– “

“I have a triple, single murderer to catch!” 

“You’re insane!” John shouts as the door slams closed.

John stares at the closed door then sags back against the arm chair, further away now so he’s practically lying on the floor. He hears Mary’s footsteps come down the stairs until she is standing over him.

“Have a good time?”

“I have tea on my trousers.”

“Is that a yes?”

John chuckles. “I do not know.”

“Well, Sherlock did leave his entire case on our floor.”

John cranes his neck to look at the mess, papers and evidence (which Sherlock probably shouldn’t have) and photos taking up half the carpet space in the semicircle made by their couch and chairs.

John groans and looks up at Mary again. “Does that mean we need to clean it up now?”

“Who said anything about ‘we’?”

John pouts up at her until the corner of her mouth quirks up. Mary kneels down beside him then pulls John’s head away from the chair and into her lap. She presses her finger tips to his temple and massages slow circles. John’s eyes flutter closed and he slips into the feeling. He sighs happily as Mary keeps massaging and reaches up to absently touch Mary’s thigh under his head. She combs her fingers through his hair slowly then slides up again to rub the sides of his head, warm and soothing and perfect.

“Hmm,” John hums and opens his eyes, “are you real?”

“I believe I was real enough last night.”

John chuckles. “That sounds like a joke.”

“Do you think it is?”

“I know it isn’t.”

Mary laughs as well then leans over and kisses John’s forehead, just to the left of the spot Sherlock kissed.

“I love you, John.”

John smiles. “I love you too.”

\----------------

“Great Expectations? Really?”

“It’s a classic.”

Lacy’s forehead scrunches. “Didn’t I read that in third form?”

Mary nods. “Yes, I remember you kept trying to make me summarize chapters for you.”

“You enjoyed it; I found it slow. Made sense to have you tell me about it.” Lacy sips her water. “It would have been quicker.”

“But then you’d never learn.”

“About dear Pup’s coming of age?”

“Pip!”

“I never get tired of hearing you two talk to each other.” Mary and Lacy turn to look at John. He smiles. “Just sounds nothing like Harry and I talking to each other.”

Mary chuckles.

John’s mobile buzzes in his pocket and he pulls it out down by his hip while Mary starts in on the importance of revisiting past literature at different ages.

[Sherlock]: _Need your assistance on a case_

John frowns and types with this thumb, _At dinner_ , and sends.

“Do you ever make them write essays about what they thought about the book at fifteen versus twenty?” Lacy asks as John looks up again.

“That implies they read it before,” John cuts in, “a lot of assumption in that, right?”

“Hasn’t everyone read Great Expectations before eighteen?” Mary asks with distain. Lacy and John both stare at her. Mary chews her ravioli and looks everywhere but at them. Finally she sighs and shakes her head. “Oh, all right! But really, literature is wasted these days.”

“Spoken just like an English professor,” Lacy counters.

Mary sighs. “In the student’s defense my lecture today was horrible.”

“Oh?” John says

“Did you go off on one of your tangents about adverbs?” Lacy asks.

John snorts into his hand then tries to hide it in his wine glass when Mary shoots a glare at him.

“I was distracted; I’ve just been having bad cramps lately.” Mary shoots a look at John then continues more to Lacy, “all of it just longer, worse lately.”

Fortunately, John’s mobile buzzes again to save him from the ‘lady problems’ talk. He pulls it out to see another text from Sherlock.

[Sherlock]: _Your point?_

John chuckles and texts back, _It’s with Mary and her sister. Can’t._

“…so I just turned it into a student led discussion,” Mary says as John tunes back in.

“Good save!” Lacy spears the last of her steamed vegetables with her fork. “I guess that’s why you get the big bucks.”

“Ha! Now there’s a joke.”

John smiles and kisses Mary’s cheek. “Like we really want money.”

“Oh yes, don’t need that.” Mary shakes her head, putting her fork down and picking up her wine.

“You gonna finish that?” Lacy asks, pointing with her fork at Mary’s half full plate.

“’Going to.’”

Lacy gives Mary a withering look. “Are you going to finish that, madam?”

Mary smiles and shakes her head again. “No, I am not.”

John frowns. “You didn’t have lunch though.”

Mary shrugs. “I’m just not hungry.”

“Hmm,” John narrows his eyes at her, “you’re not dieting or something ridiculous, are you?”

Mary snorts. “Perish the thought.”

“Mine then!” Lacy crows and snatches the plate.

John’s pocket vibrates again and he pulls out his mobile as Mary makes tsking noises at Lacy.

[Sherlock]: _Surely you’ve eaten enough, come to Baker Street._

John rolls his eyes though he still grins; _Never enough. Just call me later when you’ve passed the ‘brilliant’ phase into real mystery._

“So, question of the night,” Lacy says, “Should I go blond?”

Mary squawks. “What! The lone ginger in the family and you want to tarnish that?”

“Exactly, lone ginger. Might be interesting to blend in for a spell.”

John shrugs. “I could see it.”

Mary waves her hands at both of them. “Oh no, no, no. I forbid it!”

“Didn’t you dye your hair pink once in your past?” John asks.

“That’s not….”

“Exactly.” Lacy leans forward over her new plate. “Doesn’t everyone get a turn?”

John nods. “True.”

“Do not side with her.” Mary put up her finger in John’s face. “You are married to me.”

“Means he has to think like you do?” Lacy clicks her tongue. “Poor, John, no longer able to have an opinion with the shackles of Mary over his wrists.”

“And this is why you wanted to be a theater major when you were sixteen.”

John’s pocket vibrates yet again as Lacy sputters indignantly and says something like, ‘you love Shakespeare.’ John is beginning to suspect that Sherlock does not even have a case but just wants to disrupt John’s night.

“So, does he text more or less since his second birth?” Mary asks suddenly as John starts to sneak his mobile out again. John clears his throat awkwardly as Mary gives him the side eye. “Because if it’s less, then your mobile must have died twice a day before at the rate he goes now.”

Lacy chuckles but says nothing as she puts a fork full of ravioli into her mouth.

John smiles guiltily at Mary and pockets his mobile. “How about I make you a graph?”

“Oh, don’t you dare.”

“An essay?”

Mary smirks. “12 point font and due by Monday.”

John leans into her shoulder. “And is there a page number requirement?”

Mary laughs. “Not for you, love.”

\----------------

“How long are we going to stake out this flat?”

“As long as it takes.”

“Is this even legal?” Sherlock snorts which only makes John sigh. “Right, yeah, of course you don’t let those sorts of things stop you.”

“Is it legal to commit fraud?”

John sighs again and lets his binoculars drop. He turns to look at Sherlock lying beside him on the rooftop. “Come on, Sherlock.”

Sherlock glances at John briefly then back through his binoculars. “John, this man has already stolen half a million pounds from our client’s corporation.”

“The poor, poor corporation.”

“And he has left barely a trace of his computer hacks.”

John purses his lips. “It did take you near ten hours to finally get that code out.”

Sherlock nods and smirks. “Certainly worth a stake out to see him in action.”

“But, again, how do you know he is going to start more money hacking tonight?”

“I don’t.”

“Sher… do you mean we are just going to wait here until –“

“Yes.”

“I do have a job, Sherlock, a wife. Remember those things?”

Sherlock finally turns away from the binoculars and looks at John. He frowns dramatically and raises both eyebrows. “Yet here you are.”

“Because you tricked me,” John points a finger at Sherlock, “again.”

Sherlock smirks. “I believe I used the words ‘invaluable skills’ to tempt you.”

John clicks his teeth. “It was more around the lines of ‘possibly life threatening’ and ‘Mycroft advised against it’ where I came on board.”

Sherlock tilts his head. “Oh?”

“Well, anything to piss off Mycroft.” Sherlock chuckles then John shakes his head. “I couldn’t let you go without back up.”

Sherlock nods, that old soft look on his face which reminds John of the word ‘love,’ then he turns back to his binoculars. “Of course the word ‘danger’ implied there; always was your trigger word to jump on board, wasn’t it?”

John sighs and leans his head on his fist to get slightly more comfortable on the concrete. “Before, I suppose.”

“Still.” 

John huffs and shakes his head. 

Sherlock peers at John side long. “You disagree?”

“Before it was any case you had that I jumped up and came along, you know that. It’s not the same now, for me at least. People do change and I can’t come on every run and jump and chase you’ve got going on.”

Sherlock ‘hmms’ and shakes his head. “You could.”

“I can’t.”

“You won’t.”

“Sherlock…”

“But surely you miss it?” Sherlock turns and looks at John for a moment.

“We’ve had this conversation.”

Sherlock frowns and turns back to his binoculars. “Yes, of course. ‘Now’ is domestic bliss with Dr. Morstan and ‘before’ was your midlife crisis of adventure to clear out your system before settling into normalcy.”

“You’re being maudlin, Sherlock.”

Sherlock ‘humphs.’ “I mean only that underneath the ‘now’ there is part of you that misses what we had before, you and I, alone fighting against the tide.”

“Poetic.”

“Accurate.”

“Sherlock, I don’t miss before because it wasn’t better.” Sherlock’s head tips slightly in John’s direction though his eyes remain straight ahead in his binoculars. John smiles and touches Sherlock’s hair making the other tense slightly. “Life is perfect now because I have both of you; I have my perfect balance of what I need and want nothing else.”

At that Sherlock turns his head to stare at John. He opens his mouth once then closes it again. His eyes tick up and down John’s face, lips parting but still he says nothing. John snapshots this memory in his mind, Sherlock Holmes speechless. Then John drops his hand from Sherlock’s curls, lifts his binoculars again and turns back to their stakeout subject, now milling about the kitchen of his flat. He feels Sherlock watching the side of his head a moment longer but he lets Sherlock’s brain whirl with no more comment.

“At times, John,” Sherlock finally whispers, “you baffle me.”

John only smiles.

\----------------

Mary and John stand side by side brushing their teeth and staring into the bathroom mirror. Mary shifts her feet as she brushes, left then right, left right. John brushes his tongue then bends over and spits into the sink.

“Don’t get your tooth paste on me,” Mary mumbles around her tooth brush.

“You should be so lucky,” John replies as he runs the water, cupping his hand under and sucking some into his mouth to spit twice more. He stands up straight and wipes the edge of his mouth. 

Mary pulls her tooth brush out of her mouth and purses her lips at John which loses any attempted effect at mock offense due to the foam at the corners. John breaks and laughs, slipping a hand into her hair. Mary chuckles back in her throat and bats him away so she can rinse her mouth too.

John inches around her and walks down the hall to their bedroom. He pulls off his watch and puts it on the side table, nearly knocking the clock off in the process.

“God,” John mumbles as he sits down and shakes his head. 

He yawns and sets the alarm for the morning. Why in the world he is awake at half till midnight when he has to be up at seven is beyond him. It’s probably Mary’s fault in some way.

“Don’t blame me.” John looks up as Mary comes in. “I can see your face doing that ‘Mary’s making me stay up late’ thing again.”

“Oh really?”

“You’re the one who said, ‘Just one more Top Gear,’ not me.”

John frowns then chuckles. He dips his head then looks up again. “Maybe.”

Mary nods and slips under the covers on her side of the bed. “Exactly.”

John rolls and pulls her up against him. “What was I thinking when I could have had such an amazing woman in my bed sooner?”

“Amazing?”

“Articulate?”

Mary laughs.

“Astute?” 

“All right, all right! I am impressed by your complementary ‘A’ words you arse.”

“Ah ha, you see, it’s catching.”

Mary laughs again and rolls further into John, pushing him onto his back and her on top. She kisses his lips then cheeks and his lips again. “You are ridiculous.”

“Only because you make me so,” John says, kissing her back.

“I love it.” She scratches her nails through his hair and kisses him hard, sucks on his lip. “You are positively prolific.”

“Changing to P words?”

She chuckles. “I can think of a few.”

John rolls them again, tangling the covers. Mary laughs and kisses, pulls at his shirt and nips at his lips, teeth clicking. “Perfect and predatory.”

“Am I?”

“Oh no, I am.”

She kisses hard and grips his neck, arches up into him, still chuckling so the sound is like music. John pushes against her, one hand in her hair and tastes the mint in their mouths. Mary yanks the covers over their heads then puts both hands on his cheeks, kisses and kissing.

“My John Watson.”

She giggles quietly as she slides her shirt off between them, kissing down his neck. John grips her hips and holds on to the sound of her body with his lips on hers. All John thinks, Mary in his arms, laughter in her voice and sheets around them, is happy, so happy, happy.

\----------------

John pulls off his gloves as he walks out of surgery, dropping them and his mask into a biohazard bin. Dr. Chowdhry steps into stride beside him and pushes the button for the double doors.

“Liz went to tell the family all is well.”

“Perfect,” John replies then looks at his watch. “Shit, Aziz, it’s four?”

“I know. I thought we’d been on time but….”

“Yeah, well, better surgery done right than fast.”

Aziz chuckles. “Spoken like a professor.”

John smiles. “I am married to one, rubs off.”

“I bet.”

They turn a corner and walk into John’s office. Patient folders are piled up on both sides of his desk though not high enough to be panic worthy. 

Aziz shakes his head and taps the top of one pile. “Follow ups?”

John nods. “A lot of people like to hear back about physical therapy, things like that. I believe it’s called patient care?”

Aziz scoffs. “Oh, well that. I just cut the organs.” He makes a ‘snip snip’ motion with his hand in the air.

John chuckles and opens a drawer in his desk, pulling his mobile out. It buzzes in his hand just as he notices eight text messages waiting for him. It buzzes again and John holds up a finger to Aziz. “Yeah?”

“John?”

“Sherlock.”

“You are at work.”

“It is that time of day…”

Sherlock hangs up. John pulls the mobile away from his ear and stares at it before shifting his eyes back to Aziz. 

Aziz raises his eyebrows. “Call lost?”

“You could say that.”

John clicks the screen and scrolls through his texts.

[Sherlock][11:42]: _Case. Need you._

[Sherlock][11:50]: _Promptly._

[Sherlock][11:55]: _Please promptly._

[Mary][12:36]: _At the shop, chicken tonight?_

[Sherlock][1:05]: _If not promptly then now._

[Mary][1:45]: _After my Gyno visit and 4:00 Renaissance Lit class I am going to see Harry like promised, told you I would, win to me._

[Mary][2:15]: _And when I say ‘see Harry’ you know I only mean 10 minutes, right?_

[Sherlock][3:00]: _Must I say ‘danger?’_

Aziz leans over John’s shoulder as John scrolls and John hears a bad attempt a repressed laughter. “So which one is the wife exactly?”

“Ha ha.” Then John’s mobile buzzes again. He clicks answer with a shake of his head. “Yeah?”

“John, it is nearly five, you cannot give that as an excuse.”

“I hadn’t given any excuses before.”

“I could hear them in your tone.”

“You know, details beyond ‘come, John’ could help with that.”

“Danger, crime, dead body. There you are; are you coming?”

John rolls his eyes and watches Aziz’s smile climb higher. “I’ll call you back.” John hangs up before Sherlock can retort and holds up a finger. “Don’t start.”

Aziz shrugs. “I am just saying, maybe you should tell your boyfriend you’re married.”

John sighs. “If I had a pound for every time –“

“You would be rich beyond my dreams?”

“I’d take you out for a pint.”

“Oh, hey now,” Aziz holds up his hands and backs up toward the office door, “already looks a bit crowded over there, Watson, wouldn’t want to make it three significant others you had to juggle.”

John sits down in his chair and points at the door. “Get on then.”

“Oh, so now you’re not taking me out for a pint?” He frowns. “Shame.”

“Keep that up and I’ll tell Usha all about your flirting.”

Aziz grabs the door handle, “I’m going,” and snaps it shut.

John pulls a few files down into the middle of his desk to go through then stares at his mobile debating the pros and cons of calling Sherlock or Mary first. He very determinedly does not think in any way that Aziz might have a bit of a point.

\----------------

John fumbles with his keys, Sherlock’s arm over his shoulder making them both awkward and slow but somehow John manages to fit key to lock. He shoves the door open with his shoulder and half drags Sherlock inside, both groaning as they stumble into the living room.

“What have you… oh no,” Mary says as she stands up shakily from a chair in the living room, some folder in her hand probably full of student papers.

“It’s not as bad as it looks,” John says as he deposits Sherlock into the armchair beside the couch.

“Do speak for yourself,” Sherlock grumbles and puts a hand against the blood still slowly coming from his nose.

Mary’s eyebrows fly up and John shakes his head, “He doesn’t have a concussion.”

“Oh, if only I did, perhaps I would be blissfully unconscious.” 

“You’re so funny,” John snaps.

Mary clears her throat and clasps her hands behind her back around the folder. “So, what happened then? Bar fight? Car crash?”

“Now who’s funny?” Sherlock rasps.

“Uh,” John grimaces, “suspect smashed Sherlock’s face into a car hood.”

“What!” Mary shouts. “Why didn’t you go to hospital?”

“I have a doctor here,” Sherlock points at John, “and as he said, no concussion.”

“Have you noticed you are bleeding from your nose?” Mary says deadpan.

John shakes his head. “I can up fix him, just need to get my supplies.”

“See?”

Mary sighs distractedly. “Don’t bleed on the chair.”

Sherlock huffs then frowns. John just shakes his head again and walks over to the stairs. John jogs up and into the upstairs bathroom. He has to root around for a few things, gauze in the closet but eventually he finds everything he needs. Sherlock has a cut on his forehead too that might need suturing but probably just a bandage will do; would be good to have something for the bruising so Sherlock doesn’t end up looking like he was punched in both eyes.

When John comes back downstairs with his kit, Sherlock and Mary are standing facing each other in front of the couch. Mary’s hands are at her sides and the folder she’d been holding before is on the floor now, a few papers scattered. Neither of them speaks.

John stops at the edge of the one step down into the living room and cocks his head. “You two aren’t fighting again, are you?”

Mary’s head snaps to him in surprise and she crouches down quickly and gathers up all the papers and folder. She shakes her head and laughs airily. “No, uh, no we… we were –“

“Talking about another of her ridiculous Shakespeare courses which rely too heavily on Hamlet as God’s work,” Sherlock finishes still staring at Mary.

Mary straightens up again opens her mouth at Sherlock then turns to John again with a chuckle. “I, ha, well.”

John nods with eyes narrowed, looks back and forth between the two of them but then Mary turns and sits down making the air seem to expand again. John watches her a moment then glances at Sherlock. He finally turns to look at John and John sees the bleeding has stopped.

“All right,” John shrugs and steps over to Sherlock, pushing him back into the chair. “Let’s clean you up then.”

Sherlock frowns more but let’s John clean and tape him up, eyes staying on John and never once straying to the room or Mary behind John. Months later a light bulb will click on when John thinks of this moment and he will hate them both for it.

\----------------

“Another case solved for your boys, Lestrade.” 

Greg rolls his eyes while John suppresses a grin. Sherlock holds out the flash drive with the damning photographs for their suspect now sitting on the curb in handcuffs to Greg. After a beat Greg takes the flash drive with a gloved hand.

“Do I need to dust this for finger prints?”

Sherlock only snorts.

John clears his throat. “Best not.”

Greg sighs again. “Just in case?” John makes an apologetic face which only takes Greg twenty seconds to cave under. “Fine then. I assume you want to be well out of the credit for this?”

“Oh well, wouldn’t want your superintendent getting punched once more, would we?” Sherlock grins then flashes at look at John.

John shakes his head, expression completely innocent.

Lestrade sighs for the hundredth time. “I think I liked it better when you two were fighting.” Sherlock frowns and John snorts. Greg shoots John a look. “Don’t you have a real job?”

“Do you?”

Greg scoffs. “See if I ever buy you a pint again.”

“Ha!” John crosses his arms. “I bought last time if I remember right.”

“Socializing,” Sherlock grumbles.

“All right, all right,” Greg admonishes toward Sherlock, “Thank you, you’re a genius,” then turns to John, “and you’re a saint. Now both of you out of my crime scene before Anderson or someone comes to loudly complain.”

Sherlock smirks and turns on his heel, marching away. John smiles at Greg who rolls his eyes back. John laughs once, shakes his head, then turns and jogs after Sherlock. He catches up at the corner where Sherlock stands hailing a cab.

“Fun one that,” John says.

Sherlock turns to him with a small smile. “Glad you came along?”

“Oh yeah, just like old times.”

Sherlock frowns. “That phrase is erroneously generalizing. All my cases have very different elements, path ways and results and, thus, none really can be called ‘old times.’ Not to forget that such a phrase usually links so strongly to nostalgia as to warp any view of supposed ‘old times.’”

“And now this brings to mind the phrase ‘rain on my parade.’”

Sherlock frowns again but John cocks his head to the side and smiles until Sherlock finally breaks and smiles back at him; two for two tonight. Then a taxi pulls up beside the curb. They hop inside, John getting to the punch first so they go to his house and not Baker Street. Sherlock fixes John with a look but does not protest.

They ride in silence for a few minutes until Sherlock taps his phone on the edge of the window and John peers sidelong at him. “John, have you and Mary…”

John waits when Sherlock trails off and then presses, “What?”

Sherlock turns and looks at him, eyes running up and down twice then he shakes his head. “No, no I didn’t think so.”

John crosses his arms with a smile and huffs. “Do I want to know what you’re observing this time?”

Sherlock turns away. “No, you don’t.”

\----------------------

John and Mary slide across the dance floor in some amalgamation of a ballroom dance, the twist and John wanting to look suave. Neither Mary nor he are exactly formally taught dancers but then everyone else at this club seems to be on the same page. It’s one of the few places that manages to straddle the line between hip and ‘old folk;’ no flashing epileptic seizure lights but also no elevator music and 80-something loners planted at the bar. Instead, one finds drinks, swing, and jazz music and enough dancing that John can pretend he is in a 1920’s era film. Call it a treat.

John and Mary do not exactly have ‘date nights.’ John always thought such a distinction was corny when one was married. Isn’t every night ‘date night?’ Then again that distinction is just as bad.

“Want to stop for a drink?” Mary asks.

“Why?” John twirls them to the left. “Am I no longer impressing you?”

Mary smiles. “You call this impressive?”

John does a quick cha-cha and turns them in a kind of Anglicized salsa back and forth. He grins. “I think so.”

Mary runs her fingers through his hair once and still smiles. “Okay, maybe.”

John turns them, twirls Mary once, then pulls her back into his arms and cocks his head. “Just maybe?”

Mary laughs though it cuts off in a strange way and she nods quickly. “All right,” she takes the lead and turns them in a graceful loop around another couple, “very impressive.”

John chuckles and nestles his face in her hair, chest to chest simply rocking to the saxophone music for a moment. She smells like shampoo and ink and he presses his fingertips into the skin of her back to feel bone underneath; complete and real under his touch because maybe sometimes he still doubts she is really here.

As they turn again, heels clicking, John leans back and suddenly notices tears in Mary’s eyes. He grips her a bit tighter and kisses her cheek. “Hey, you all right?”

Mary laughs breathlessly and makes a quiet sniffing noise. “Ha, yes.”

“But you’re cry–“

“I know, I’m just…” She sighs as she presses herself against him, cheek to cheek, and her voice soft in his ear. “I’m just so happy I met you, John.”

\-----------------

Mary and John sit at the kitchen table eating dinner, John’s best attempt at chicken masala. John has made it before but that attempt ended in something akin to Harry’s cooking so he hadn’t tried again; this time the chicken appears quite cooked and nothing burnt. Neither of them are that good cooks but John thinks he can win this long game if he keeps at it.

John watches Mary, her fork mostly making circles on her plate instead of bringing food to mouth. “Don’t like it?” 

Mary looks up and chuckles. “It’s fine, John.”

John purses his lips and raises an eyebrow. “Uh huh.”

Mary rests the tip of her fork on her plate then lets it go, laying her palms flat on the table. “I have something to tell you, John.”

John chews slowly and tilts his head. “All right?”

She pulls her hands off the table and rubs them together then puts them down again. John puts his fork down as well and sits up, waiting. Mary clears her throat and tosses hair out of her face. Then she looks John right in the eye. “John, I have ovarian cancer.”

John’s stomach drops in the most literal sense possible and he feels a shake in his one hand. John clenches his fist slowly and swallows. “Ah.”

Mary stares at him for a moment as neither of them speak. Then she breathes in slowly and shifts her chair closer to the table. “Did you hear what I said, John?”

John swallows and nods. “Yes, uh… I did.”

Mary slides her hand across the table and covers John’s. “I found out at my last Gynecologist visit –“

“That was over a month ago.”

“I know.” John opens his mouth again but Mary squeezes his hand and he stops. “I’m sorry. I wanted to get the biopsy to be sure before I told you.”

“But when did you –“

“When you went on that case with Sherlock that had you in Dublin a night.” John clenches his teeth but only nods. Mary smiles and rubs a pattern on the back of his hand. “So, it’s confirmed now and…” She breathes in again. “It’s…” She blows out a breath, closes her eyes once then opens them again. “It’s stage four.”

“Stage four…” John says like frost falling.

“I, uh…” Mary looks down at the table and their plates. “I have an appointment to figure out treatment options – you know when, where I should go, details, something about category and surgery – same stuff of course, and the doctor said we need to move quickly before –“

John sees her control starting to slip and John puts his other hand on top of hers. “Mary.”

She looks up at him suddenly and her jaw clenches. “John, I…”

“It’s fine.” John nods reassuringly. “We will figure this all out.”

“You can probably understand more of what they say anyway,” Mary whispers.

John nods again, “Yes,” keeping his voice calm and controlled as Mary is despite the pulse he feels in her hand. “I will.”

“Yes.”

“Mary, we will figure this out.”

“There’s no figuring out, John, we know what this is!” Mary snaps. John nods again as Mary sighs. “I’m sorry, I…“

“It’s all right, Mary, don’t apologize.”

She shakes her head and stares up at the ceiling. “I’ve just… I’ve been keeping this in….”

“You know you didn’t have to.”

Mary’s eyes tick down again. “Yes, I did, John. I needed to.”

John refuses to overanalyze and squeezes her hand like she did his. “We are in this together and I am going to pull you through, all right? Everything is going to fine.”

“You say that, but –“

“Mary, you are a fighter, we both are.”

Mary laughs. “Oh, don’t I know.”

John smiles and kisses her fingertips. “I love you, Mary.”

Mary breathes in sharply with a shake of her head then leans over and rests her forehead on their clasped hands, breathing slowly in time with John’s hand stroking her hair.

\------------------

Sherlock is already looking at the doorway when John enters the flat after bounding up the stairs. John breathes in and out as Sherlock watches him, fingers still on the keys of his laptop. John swallows but it takes him another minute to form any words.

“Mary…” is all he can say.

“She told you.”

John sucks in a ragged gulp of air. “You knew?”

Sherlock stares back at John and does not answer. John breathes through his nose to calm his erratic pulse but it does no good. John shakes his head hard and clenches a fist. 

“Why would you not fucking tell me something like this?” he barks.

“She asked me not to.”

John laughs harshly. “And since when do you listen to anyone but yourself?”

“John, sit down.”

“Sit down?” John snaps. “That’s what you say?”

“John, your reaction is –“

“My reaction is all mine, Sherlock, don’t you tell me what it is or what it should be!” John shouts, all his control with Mary, all his attempts at calm out the window now.

“John, please sit down.”

“My wife has stage four cancer and you say sit down!” John shouts so that it sounds like tearing in his throat, like an anguished scream.

“Sit down, now,” Sherlock commands sharply and this time John listens.

John sits on the couch and puts his head in his hands with a groan. “Oh god…”

Silence clamps down and for five minutes neither of them speak, tears dripping onto the carpet and John’s fingers fisted tightly in his short hair. He feels Sherlock’s presence across the room, knows his friend is there, but apart from that he could be alone in the flat.

“I…. do you…” Sherlock clears his throat and his voice is that attempt at ‘normal,’ ‘generic,’ proper’ he always fails at. “Do you want tea?”

John laughs but cuts it off with a gasp.

“Perhaps not…” Sherlock whispers.

“You’re right,” John shakes his head in his hands. “I know why she waited, why she didn’t tell me right away; takes anyone time to process of course, of course! But…” John groans and snaps his head up, swinging his body along so his head knocks against the edge of the couch. “I’m a doctor! I could…. I mean… Damn it!” John throws up both hands and protests the ceiling. “I know how this goes! It’s not my specialty, no, but I know how… How…” His voice drops in volume. “How it could go.” He breathes in sharply and sits up again, counting on his palm with two fingers. “I know all the steps, the stages, the symptoms as it progresses, the process, the treatments, who she should talk to, what we should do, where she should go – and why are you being so quiet?” John snaps the end and looks at Sherlock again.

Sherlock slips his hands slowly off his keyboard and threads them together. “You do not want to hear what I have to say.”

“No, I do.”

Sherlock sighs and tilts his head. “I am not a doctor, John, but I know you need to be prepared that the possibility is –“

“No, you’re right,” John interrupts, “I don’t want to hear what you have to say.”

“John…”

“I swear, if you say something like ‘it will all be okay…’”

“Why would I say that?”

“To have some fucking compassion, maybe!”

They fall silent again, the only sound John’s harsh breathing. He hunches over and clenches his hands, runs one palm over his knuckles then vice versa over and over. He shoots a glare at Sherlock then looks at the wood floor – the carpet gone as if Mary and he had never lived here in the time in between.

“You’re not angry with me,” Sherlock says finally.

“No?”

“No.”

John huffs a breath out and shakes his head. “No… no…”

He hears Sherlock’s chair move and then Sherlock is crouching down in front of him. Sherlock puts his hands on John’s shoulders and it makes John shudder. He looks up at Sherlock who only looks back him, does not challenge John’s emotional reaction now, does not over explain the situation or call him an idiot. John feels like he cannot breathe and he slides his hands over his face, shifts forward and into Sherlock. Sherlock does not move, only keeps his hands on John’s shoulders as John shakes and cracks and falls and spins away.

\-----------------

John and Mary sit in chairs that appear as though they should be comfortable with their plush cushions but really make one sit up too much and pinch when one shifts. John wonders if this was a deliberate choice, make sure the patient stays awake and feels uncomfortable? If so, John is well aware one does not need special chairs for that.

“All right, let me go over what I can tell you now.” Mary’s initial doctor – Dr. Johnson – opens up Mary’s folder as she speaks. “We have your biopsy and x-ray and this gives us a lot to start with.”

Mary nods, her hand slipping into John’s. John finds himself judging the size of Johnson’s desk. She has two piles on her desk just like John does but in her case John wonders what her two piles mean. Positive and negative? Terminal or not?

“So, if you look right here.” She holds up the x-ray, pointing quickly. “You can see…”

John grits his teeth and blinks his eyes, hand still tight in Mary’s. John knows he can understand it all better, knows he has to listen but it feels like being inside a cloud. He wonders if his patients feel this way, that they see his mouth moving but the words just flow right over like water. Johnson keeps talking, hand gestures and reassuring smiles. It feels like pantomime, like silent film, like this whole room is just a construct and the only real thing is Mary’s hand in his.

“So,” Mary clears her throat and sound clicks back on. “What is the best course of treatment for me?”

John’s eyes tick over to Mary, her still face and determined eyes. John breathes slowly and watches her, her hair tucked behind her ears, the way the light makes her eyes darker, the small gold hoops in her ears, the smell of lotion, the edge of her teeth on her lip for just a moment, her eyelashes moving down then up again, her chin held up just enough, her lips pressing together then opening as she breathes out. John clicks his heels together and sits up straight. This is not about him, it’s about Mary.

“I won’t sugar coat this,” Johnson says and John focuses on her, “your road going forward is not going to be quick or easy.”

“We know,” John and Mary say together.

They look at each other for a moment then turn back to the doctor. Johnson smiles a fraction and nods. “Then let’s get to it.”

\------------------

Mary and John sit side by side on the couch, hands tight together. Mary’s parents sit across from them with Diane standing behind her mother’s chair.

Diane speaks first. “What do you mean?”

John glances at Mary as she frowns. Mary breathes out and pats her other hand on her thigh. “Just what I said, Diane.”

“But you’re young!”

Mary’s mother gasps sharply and John sees her eyes glistening behind her glasses.

“Diane,” Mary’s father says, “let her finish.”

“She is finished; what else is she going to say? You heard her!”

“Diane.” Mary holds up a hand. “Just calm down a minute and let me –“

“Calm!” Diane starts to pace toward the window then back to her mother’s chair. She swoops her arms in the air once and huffs. “How are _you_ calm?”

“I’ve been waiting to tell you, I’ve known –“

“How long?” Mary’s mother asks. “I mean, how long have you known?”

“Mum…”

“Were you keeping this from us?” She sniffs. “Isn’t there things you should be… we should be doing?”

“She needed time to process, Joan,” John says. “We’ve been to the doctor and have treatment plans set up.”

“What are they?” Mary’s father suddenly asks.

John clears his throat. “I think –“

“Dad, can we wait –“

“Mary, you’ve just told us you have cancer.” Everyone suddenly looks at Mary’s father, his calm and even tone almost as frightening as screaming. “This isn’t a pleasantry we can stay on the surface of. We need to know everything you know, everything going forward. We need to be a part of the plans. Mary, I…” He clenches his fists on the arms of his chair. “You’re… you’re my first girl.”

John clenches his teeth together and squeezes Mary’s hand. She stands up and walks over to her father. She crouches down in front of his chair and clasps his hand.

“It’s going to be all right,” she says and anyone – even all of them, the closest in her life – would believe her the way she speaks.

Diane runs over and kneels next to Mary, wrapping herself around Mary’s shoulders. “We need to call Lacy. She should be here and…. Oh god, Mary.”

“I know, I know. Don’t worry.”

John stands up quietly as the Morstan’s close in around each other, all hands on Mary and her steady voice keeping them anchored as she carefully tells them more details. He turns and walks out of the living room into the hall, pulling his mobile from his pocket. John calls Harry. 

After two rings the line clicks. “Wotcher, my darling shorter brother, to what do I owe?” She chuckles.

“Harry, I…” John breathes out slowly and has to close his eyes.

“John?” Harry’s voice changes to serious. “John, you sound…”

“Harry, I have to tell you something.”

\-------------------

“I think the dosage needs to be adjusted, the way she reacted to this chemo –“

“Mr. Watson…”

“Dr. Watson; I’ve told you that before so don’t pretend you don’t know or that I am not perfectly understanding everything you are talking about because I certainly am.”

The man clears his throat. “Dr. Watson, your wife’s chemotherapy is aggressive due to the phase of her cancer, so some reaction –“

“I am aware of that but her platelet count –“

“Dr. Watson, you need to let us –“

“I do not need to –“

“John,” Mary pipes up quietly from the bed, “they know what they’re –“

“Maybe.” John flashes her an angered smile then turns back to the doctor in front of him. “If the reactions to the chemo are too severe then –“

“We need to see this round of the treatment through before –“

John shakes his head. “There is room for adjustment.”

“John, please, just –“

“And about the radiation.” John picks up the chart at the end of the bed. “I saw it, there was something which needed to be amended.”

“John!” Mary snaps.

John and the doctor both suddenly look at Mary lying in the bed.

“Mary…”

“Could you give us a moment?” Mary says to the doctor, making a quick smoothing motion over the sheets covering her legs.

The doctor smiles and practically runs out of the room, shutting the door behind him. Mary breathes slowly, hands clenched in the bed sheets, the shouting clearly causing her some distress.

John clenches the edge of the chart in his hands. “Mary, I am only trying to make sure you get the best and most effect type of treatment.”

“I know that, John.”

John paces for a minute and taps the chart on the bed frame. “It can be better than this. I’ve seen some treatments where –“

“John, I don’t need you to be my doctor!” Mary says sharply.

John blinks in surprise. “Mary, I –“

“I need you to be my husband,” she gasps with the sound of tears in the back of her throat.

John’s hands clench around the chart and he slowly drops his hands down. He puts the chart back onto the end of her bed then walks over and sits beside her, taking her hand. He smiles and nods at her, squeezing once.

“Just be my husband,” Mary whispers as a few tears leak down into the edges of her hair.

John leans forward and kisses her lips, stroking his free hand over her hair. “Just your husband, okay.”

She sniffles and kisses him back. “Okay.”

\-----------------

John scrolls through an extensive website full of numbers, graphs and figures which a layman would consider incomprehensible. John has trouble even as a member of the medical profession but he reads on about a new form of hormone treatment, taking notes in a Word document as he goes. He closes his eyes once, remembers some spring day and Mary’s hand pulling him off some path and into a field.

“John.”

John opens his eyes and looks over the edge of his laptop to Sherlock sitting at the table once again positioned between the two front windows of 221b. “What?” Sherlock makes a motion with his hand for John to come over. John sighs. “Just tell me, Sherlock.”

“I can prove for a start that our husband was home when he said he was not.”

“What are you –“

“Google earth.” Sherlock smirks. “Something so simple and coincidental!”

John groans. “Sherlock, I told you, I can’t help with your –“

“You have been staring at that screen for hours, John.” Sherlock types in a quick flourish then looks at John again. “My screen is just as bright as yours.”

“But my purpose is far different.”

Sherlock tilts his head and sighs. “A multiple murder is an important venture, John, this case needs solving and, as you know, you are an invaluable resource, one I have lacked lately. I can point definitively to at least one case where your assistance may have allowed its solving a day earlier had you been there; likely there are more.”

John frowns and blinks twice then turns back to his computer.

“John –“

“Sherlock, do I need to say it again?” John snaps.

Sherlock’s face softens slightly. “Make some tea at least.”

John opens his mouth then shuts it and sighs. “Yeah, all right.”

He stands up and walks into the kitchen. It’s strange to see the combination of old and new here now. The chemistry set has returned to the table but some of the new appliances were those left by him and Mary. John picks up the hot water pot and sticks it under the tap until it’s full to the line. Then he sticks it back and flips the switch on. He pulls mugs out of the cabinet – the cabinet Sherlock always kept them in before – then gets some sugar – out of the bowl Mary bought. The milk in the refrigerator is a constant bridge between all three time periods. John decides not to bother with a proper pot and drops a PG tips bag into each mug.

John leans back against the counter waiting. In his head he sees websites, alternative cancer treatments and new radiation options. He sees a medical journal from his coworker Melissa, article on successful laparoscopic procedures combined with neoadjuvant chemotherapy. John crosses his arms and knocks his head gently back against the cabinet. He opens his eyes and stares at the fluorescent light on the ceiling. He wonders absently if he’d chosen cancer as his specialty, if he’d practiced for years instead of entering the army would he be any more use now?

The pot begins to whistle so John turns around and grabs the handle. He pours water into the two mugs then drops a spoon in each. He walks back into the living room and puts one mug beside Sherlock’s hand. He moves to walk back to the couch then Sherlock grabs his wrist.

John looks down. “What?”

Sherlock holds up his mobile and John cocks an eyebrow. “Barts.”

“Sherlock….”

“Molly has my bodies ready and I think that the missing piece could be a poison, if you would –“

“I can’t.” John pulls his hand away from Sherlock. “I need to read on this –“

“You can spare twenty minutes, John, it would –“

“No.” John steps back twice and waves his hand. “No, Sherlock, I can’t spare five.”

Sherlock grits his teeth and breathes sharply through his nose. “You cannot bury yourself in –“

“Are you going to give me advice on –“

“If these places were reversed,” Sherlock snaps, “you would say –“

“Ha!” John sneers. “If these places were reversed I would surely pity the other Mary.”

“Giving in to insults now, John?”

“As though you’ve been above it so much, Sherlock.”

“I am only asking you to –“

“And I am just saying, no, I cannot play your puppy dog now!”

Sherlock frowns deeply and his voice lowers. “Life does not stop for cancer, John.”

“Yes, it does!” John shouts suddenly.

Sherlock sits back in his chair, purses his lips but does not reply, twirling his mobile around once in his hand.

John stares for a moment then his shoulders sag. He sighs and rubs his free hand over his eyes. “Look, I know what you’re trying to do, tactlessly and blunt as you are; trying to give me a distraction, something else to think about but… just no, all right?”

Sherlock’s face does a quick round of frown into forced smile. After a pause he nods. “All right.”

John nods once more. “Good.” Then he turns and walks back to the couch, setting down his tea and sitting in front of his computer.

John can feel Sherlock watching him as he types – pulls up another article from a doctor in Finland – but he keeps his eyes on the screen; he ignores the feeling in his limbs that either calls for him to run over and punch Sherlock in the face or fall into his arms, either way to feel something else than this helpless, throbbing pain.

\------------------

John hates work now more than anything. Every patient, every face, every single one is Mary looking back at him. All their fears are his fears for Mary, her expression falling, her false confidence and her attempts at positivity. Every time he checks an IV he remembers Mary dosage, see’s Mary sitting in the chair getting Chemotherapy. Whenever he has surgery he imagines Mary under the knife and her life resting on that edge.

“You should take more time off,” Liz says, “you have it, you know that.”

“Yes, I… I know.”

But being home is no better, watching Mary wince each time she shifts in bed, wondering if that day will be one of the good days or the bad days. 

Mary tries to cheer him up when it should be him cheering her. “Don’t need to worry about shampoo anymore, right?” She says.

He counts out pills for the week, triple checking the prescriptions are full and up to date. He finds things she can eat which won’t provoke the nausea. He rubs lotion on her skin as gently as he can when her new medicine gives her a rash which hurts instead of itches.

John makes her laugh. He does everything he can to make her laugh – that gorgeous sound – and maybe for ten minutes a day they will think about something else.

He walks the hospital halls, smiles that doctor smile meant to instill confidence and hears Mary’s doctors in his head, “treatment… not going as well…. Still options but you should be prepared…”

At work every smile is false and he wants to tell his patients to run as fast as they can off the nearest cliff because why sit still in this hell?

“Go home, John,” Aziz tells him, “be with Mary.”

“I have to keep working… I just…”

“I know, but Mary can’t run from it any more than you can.”

No matter where he goes cancer follows. John just wishes being a doctor could cancel it all out, cash in the karma. Couldn’t the lives he’s saved – the hundreds of lives – balance out and give him this one life he wants to keep?

\-------------------

John wakes up to some noise, slowly digging up from sleep and he notices the room is still dark. His arm sweeps out over the empty bed beside him then hears the noise of retching. John blinks his eyes open quickly and throws the covers off. He climbs out of bed and walks down the hall toward the light of the bathroom. He steps over to Mary and touches her back as he crouches low.

“Do you want –“

“I’m fine,” she says into the toilet. “Go back to sleep.”

“It’s all right, I’m –“

“You have work in the…” She gasps and shifts her legs, “in the morning.”

“Don’t worry about that.”

“You should –“

“Mary.” John picks up a wash cloth from the edge of the sink and carefully wipes some of the sweat from her head. “I’m staying up with you, all right?”

Mary nods once then gasps. She grips the edge of the toilet seat harder so her knuckles turn white and heaves again. She gasps twice, heaves and makes a pained noise. John bites his lip hard and edges closer, moving so he can hold her shoulders even if it actually does nothing to help. Mary gasps, almost hyperventilating for a minute, then leans back. She reaches behind her but John gets there first and hands her some toilet tissue.

“Okay, okay.” She waves his hands away from her then wipes at her mouth. “Oh god, tastes like –“

John chuckles half-heartedly. “Yeah, I bet.”

She clenches her fists once and grimaces. Then she throws the tissue into the toilet and pushes the handle down with a whoosh of water. She turns and looks at John with a grim smile. He smiles back and pets the crest of her head once.

“Go to sleep,” she says as she leans back against the bathroom wall.

John shakes his head. “Nope.”

“Really, I just want to sit here a moment longer then I’ll be back in bed.”

John smile wryly. “Why would I want to go without you?”

Mary sighs but still smiles. “Ha ha. Go on.”

John shifts and leans his back against the wall beside her. “I’ll go when you go.”

Her smile fades and she sits up. “John, I can throw up on my own, the body does the work.”

John sits up with her. “You know that’s not why.”

“John…”

“I told you we’re in this together, all right?” John’s hand hovers over Mary’s but he pulls it back instead and scrubs it through his own hair. “If you’re up at three in the morning, I’m going to be too.”

Mary smiles and opens her mouth then jerks her head around to the toilet again with a pained retch and a gasp. She moans and heaves and bangs one hand on the toilet top against the tank. She makes a high noise like something tearing then stills, hands griping and her face in the toilet. John hovers beside her, wanting to pull her back, to pull her close, to hold her until she falls blessedly asleep again.

“God, John…” She moans.

“It’ll pass, Mary.” John rubs a hand gently on her back. “It has before. Just ride it out.”

“I can’t…” Mary moans. “I can’t…” She gasps and sits back on her heels, staring at the wall above the toilet. “I just…”

“You have to fight,” John whispers.

Mary’s eyes tick to him and she stares at him for a long moment. “We both know how this is ending, John.”

John shakes his head a fraction, swallows and watches her as she closes her eyes then rests her head down on the green porcelain seat. He does not reply.

\-------------------

John walks down the hospital hallway, skirts around a vacant wheelchair, ginger ale in hand. His left shoe looks as though it’s coming untied but he doesn’t bother to stop and tighten it. If he trips and bashes his head on the tile he knows how to suture it. John comes up on Mary’s room but stops just at the edge of the door when he hears voices inside, Sherlock’s and Mary’s.

“I know I don’t need –“

“Then why are you bother –“

“…to ask you –“

“You don’t.”

“But I am anyway!”

Sherlock sighs quietly. “Well?”

“You have to take care of him.”

“Mary –“

“It’s not your forte,” Mary coughs once and breathes in audibly, “don’t deny it.”

“I certainly won’t.”

“But you’re going to have to learn because failure here isn’t an option.”

Sherlock clears his throat but does not say anything. John imagines Sherlock making one of his strained smiles. John leans his back against the wall beside the door and stays still.

“We haven’t ever really gotten along, better than before, yes, but well…” 

Sherlock sighs again, “Really, is this –“

Then something makes a banging noise. “Can you let me talk? Jesus! It’s hard enough!”

Sherlock clears his throat just enough for John to hear. “So?”

Mary breathes deeply. “I don’t know how he’s going to react, Sherlock, when it happens. My sisters have each other, my parents too, they will all have someone. John has you; Harry won’t be much help so it will really be just you.”

“John does have other friends, I hear.”

“Come on, Sherlock,” she gasps raggedly, “of all the people to play dumb!”

“Mary,” Sherlock hisses with frustration and John hears that familiar pacing. “Emotions are not my highest ability, obviously, but I know he –” Sherlock huffs and his voice lowers in volume. “How in the world can John lean on me when I did this very thing to him first?”

For a long moment John hears nothing, barely breathing, no one moving until Mary clicks her tongue in her professor way. “He won’t have a choice, Sherlock; and, believe me, he would still choose you anyway.”

“He didn’t before.”

Mary laughs in a gasping way and Sherlock chuckles once, somehow not an issue between them when all rules of interaction would say it should be. John hears a chair scrape on the floor and Mary makes a small pained noise.

“Sherlock…” Mary clears her throat and her voice sounds slightly strained. “I just need to know that he’ll be safe. He is the one I am supposed to protect, the one I love, and with all of this I just need to know that someone will be there to catch him when he falls.” The bed makes a creaking noise – Mary sitting up. “I need to know that you will put him first no matter what, no matter what he does.”

For a long moment there is no sound – the faint beep of machines, footsteps far away down the hall, nurses speaking at the station in the distance. The chair shifts again and Mary breathes out in a surprised, quiet way.

“I will.”

“Thank you.”

“You don’t need to thank me; I would have done it without your request, even if you had told me to stay away instead.”

Mary huffs quietly. “Oh, well then.”

“I told you, Mary, I won’t hurt him again and that includes by neglect.”

Mary laughs in an airy way. “You really must have changed from before.”

The chair scrapes again and John hears someone – Sherlock – stand up. “John should be back soon. Good bye, Mary.”

“Good bye.”

It is only when John hears Sherlock walking toward the door that John realizes he has slid slowly down the wall and now crouches at the floor, ginger ale clutched between both hands. He stares at the wall across from him until Sherlock’s legs block his view. John bites the edge of his lip and shakes his head once. He stays silent, thighs starting to ache, and Sherlock does not move away or speak. Then John sees Sherlock’s hand held out toward him in his field of vision. John breathes through his nose slowly then detaches one hand from the ginger ale. He grips Sherlock’s hand tightly and Sherlock pulls him up.

\---------------------

“I want to go to Italy.”

John turns his head and stares at Mary tucked beside him on the couch under a blanket. “I want to go,” she continues, “not just metaphorical. Let’s go.”

“What, now?”

“I’m serious, John.” She brushes a hand over her head, a soft fuzz covering it now since her last round of chemo having ended long enough ago. “I’ve never been and I want to go now.”

She doesn’t add what John can hear, ‘before it’s too late.’

John looks at the floor for a moment then nods. “Okay. Let’s go.”

They start at the top and head down, Venice – city of canals and architecture.

“I feel like we are in a rom com right now,” Mary whispers as they take the traditional gondola ride.

“Do I look the part?”

She smirks. “For me you do.” 

They take the train – fields of sun flowers and rows upon rows of grapes through Tuscany and Umbria. They crisscross the width of the country, double backing and stopping in any small town which catches Mary’s eye; Deruta with a pottery store on every street and apparently its own distinct design which some art collector could point out to you.

The Leaning Tower in Pisa, exactly as every photo ever hailed it to be.

“I thought it would be bigger.”

“Don’t mock the short, John.”

“Want to do one of the corny holding it up photos?”

Mary laughs. “Oh, do I ever!”

More towns, regular places where people live as though this Italian world is real, places they’d never heard of before they stepped on the ground. (Supposedly).

“Volterra?”

“It’s in Twilight; it’s where the old vampires are from, the sort of ruling body.”

John stares.

“Know thy enemy, John, now help me up this hill.”

A Roman theatre, Etruscan museum, a restaurant in an old prison – just a little town stacked upon a hill and hardly a tourist in sight but so peaceful John can imagine staying.

“A town of our own?” Mary says.

John grins. “If you cancel out the Twilight connection. 

Towns up winding streets high into the hills so they overlook only rolling fields of green – “reminds me of Scotland but with sun,” says Mary; towns so small you can count the inhabitants as you drive through. Abbeys that look like castles on hills and towns where the doors hang open and you are invited inside at first glance.

“Just try the wine,” Beatrice says from her back garden, Mary and John in chairs somehow after only being in Migliano an hour when they got lost, “it is not good, he makes this himself but it is not good, pretend it is good.”

“Wine!” Says her father as he comes up from the basement and they talk for hours on this countryside back patio, John’s hand in Mary’s.

Florence. Watching the sun set over the Duomo di Firenze then Mary crying in the hotel room, lying on her back on the bed for two days from the pain.

“Mary…”

“It’s…. I can…” She sobs.

“We can go home, maybe we should go home.”

“No, not yet,” she gasps in pain and puts her hands over her eyes. “Not yet, no, no.”

They try all kinds of food – real Italian pizza, pasta and truffles, marzipan – all the things they supposedly have at home.

“Spaghetti in England is a lie!” Mary says with pasta in her mouth and eyes wide. “Have you seen this, have you tasted it? Look!”

“I think heaven is on my fork,” John replies, bite in his mouth as he leans back against the chair. “Can we steal the chef?”

And then Rome, the heart of Italy, the city, the people, museums and art and statues and the reminder of a civilization which spread their presence across the world. The Colosseum, the Piazza del Campidoglio, a quick trip into Vatican City to pretend they are Catholic and somehow feel that God rests at their feet in St. Peter’s square.

In Naples – the south of Italy and somehow a feeling so different than three weeks ago in Venice though they know it is the same country – John holds Mary in his arms. She trembles slightly and John knows it is not from any temperature outside. 

“I love you, John.”

John kisses her forehead, kisses above her ears and breathes in the foreign air around her familiar presence. “I love you too, Mary.”

She squeezes her hands against his back. “Let’s go home now.”

\------------------

John sits beside Mary’s hospital bed in a chair, feet curled up underneath him and scooted as close to the bed as possible. He’s only half awake now and he knows it is past visiting hours. It helps to be a doctor to get the rules bent. They wouldn’t want to test him now anyway about leaving. Across the room Lacy sleeps in another chair, her head tilted to one side and her hand half curled around her mobile in her lap. John watches Mary’s monitors, quiet occasional beeping and colored lines. He has already memorized what they say and the lines blur the more he stares. When was the last time he slept more than a few hours?

John lets his eyes close and he sees Mary in her wedding dress. Red flowers nestle in Mary’s hair as she dances with him, hand on his one arm. She giggles as he puffs himself up to look just a little taller. ‘The uniform does it too,’ she says. They turn slowly to music, something classical with no words and she grips his hand so their rings click together. They smile at the same time and look at their hands. ‘ding ding’ he says and ‘ring ring’ she says. She smiles and smiles and he laughs and they dance in white and black with gold accents and red flowers.

“John.”

John opens his eyes and reaches his hand out to touch Mary’s before he even realizes she was the one who said his name. He widens his eyes and blinks a few times to wake himself up.

He smiles at Mary’s tired face. “Hi.”

“Hi,” She says. “It’s late.”

John peers down toward his watch but doesn’t actually look at the time. “It doesn’t matter.”

“I’m glad you’re here,” she whispers.

“I wouldn’t be anywhere else.”

“I know.” She smiles. “I know.” She taps a finger over his thumb. “Do you remember New Year’s Eve, when you tied the confetti ribbons in my hair?”

John chuckles. “Yeah, I said that gold should go with gold.”

“And I told you my hair wasn’t gold.”

“And I said it was worth gold.”

Mary smiles tiredly. “You’ll remember it.”

John swallows. “Of course I will.”

“Oh, when you proposed.” She smiles more and shows a small flash of teeth. “I thought I would fall right through the floor of the capsule.”

“So did I.”

“Down on one knee and…” she sighs. “And everything.”

John nods. “I can’t believe I didn’t just fall on my arse.”

“I would have still said yes.”

John sniffs sharply. “Good for me.”

Mary tilts her head away for a minute, her eyes on Lacy then she slowly turns her head back to John. “Remember last Christmas?” Her fingers tap on his hand again and she laughs weakly. “I bought you that hideous tie.”

John laughs too and feels a flick of water on his other hand. “Yeah, the four clashing colors of stripes and then a whale on top?”

“You called me color blind.”

John shakes his head. “I didn’t mean it.”

“You did with my dress sense.”

“Sometimes you mix things up.”

“You would know.” She laughs quietly again and coughs slightly. “But I liked it that way.”

“I kept the tie.”

“You never…” she breathes in slowly then goes on, “never wore it.”

John huffs quietly. “Do you want me to? I will. I’ll wear it tomorrow so you can see.”

“I don’t think I will.”

“Will what, want me too?” John smiles wryly. “I’m not saying it’s my first choice.”

“No…” Mary shakes her head just a fraction. “See tomorrow.”

John sets his teeth together and shakes his head. “You will. You will. I’ll wear that striped whale tie with that pink shirt I know you hate just to show you I can model your dress sense too and then you’ll laugh and you won’t forget it and we’ll both laugh every time we think of how ridiculous I looked. Okay?” John breathes in and wipes a hand at his eyes. “Okay? Whale tie tomorrow, I promise.”

Mary breathes in and out and her lip quirks up just a bit. “Okay, John.”

John squeezes her hand. “Are you tired?”

“No…”

“Do you want something? Water? I can get you –“

“No,” she whispers. “No, just…” her fingers tap slowly, one, two, slowly on his hand. “Just… hold my hand.”

John hunches closer and squeezes her hand. “Okay.” He reaches out and touches her cheek – skin thinner but her eyes still just the same as they always were. “Okay,” he whispers. “I won’t let go.”

She smiles and closes her eyes. “I lov…” She sighs quietly and taps his finger again.

“I love you, too,” John says. “I love you, Mary.”

When the monitors start to beep John stands up, reaches over and turns the sound off. He sits back down and keeps holding Mary’s hand, stroking her cheek with his other. He remembers Mary lying beside him in bed and way she looked at him every morning, like she would never love anyone else as much again.

It only took five months.

\---------------------

John unlocks his front door and lets it slowly swing closed behind him with a faint click. The first thing he sees is Mary’s trainers by the wall, one upside down on top of the other. He stares at them, notices traces of dirt on the soles and how one of the shoe laces has begun to fray. John’s coat slips out of his hand onto the floor absently, brushing against his leg as it falls.

When John finally looks up he sees Sherlock sitting on the edge of the couch watching him.

“John?”

John stares at Sherlock, long coat still on as if he’d just walked in a five minutes before. However, a mug sits on the side table and a book on the couch, Sherlock’s phone beside it – he’s been waiting for hours.

“John?” Sherlock repeats.

John blinks slowly but still does not move. Sherlock stands up and walks over to him. John watches Sherlock, head moving slowly along but his feet stay planted where he stands. Sherlock stops just to the side of John and picks up the fallen jacket. He steps around John and hangs the jacket up on one of the hooks in the wall just above Mary’s shoes.

John breathes in sharply then turns and shoves Sherlock. Sherlock hits the front door, not hard, but he still winces and gasps once in surprise. He puts up his hands but does not push John back or say anything. John shoves Sherlock again, as if Sherlock would fall through the closed door with only a tap. Sherlock grabs at John’s arms but John pushes his elbows out, knocks Sherlock’s hands back and shoves him again.

“You…” John gasps and pushes feebly against Sherlock. “You… why…. She should…” John gasps harshly, raggedly and he fists a hand in Sherlock’s coat, shoves him hard against the door so Sherlock gasps too. “Why… I can’t…” John grabs Sherlock’s lapels in both hands but stops shoving at Sherlock’s chest. Instead he just hangs on as his body begs to give up, to collapse, and he leans heavily on Sherlock, forehead falling just above his hands on Sherlock’s chest.

After several minutes Sherlock’s hands come up and grip John’s hands. He squeezes once then carefully pries John’s hands off of his coat. Sherlock holds onto his hands until John stands up straight again and pulls his hands away. John steps back from Sherlock, his eyes still drawn to those blue trainers on the floor.

“John?” Sherlock asks after another minute.

John shakes his head and takes another step back. Finally he looks up at Sherlock again. Sherlock stares at him, expression blank in a way that means he’s concerned but trying to stay neutral until John reacts again. John frowns and shakes his head. He turns and walks toward the stairs.

“John, do you want –“

“Go.”

“What?”

John turns with his hand on the stair banister, “Go back to Baker Street, Sherlock.” Then John turns and walks up the stairs without waiting to hear Sherlock leave.

John turns at the top, flips on the hall light switch, and walks the short distance down to his bedroom – his and Mary’s bedroom. He stops in the doorway without turning the light on. From the hall light he sees “Great Expectations” on Mary’s side of the bed, three prescription pill bottles on top of the book and a half full glass of water on the far side near the lamp. He sees his and Mary’s watches side by side on the dresser against the wall. He sees one of his sweaters in a ball on the end of the bed with Mary’s pale pink bra on top. 

John turns around and walks across the hall to the bathroom. He flicks on the light and stares at the mirror. His hair looks greasy, as greasy as short hair can look. When did he last take a shower? John rubs a hand over his face and keeps staring. Out of the corner of his eye he sees tooth brushes and jasmine hand cream. John’s hands grip the edges of the sink until he slowly slides down to the tiled floor.

Two hours later, John stands up and walks back downstairs. A light is still on in the living room. Sherlock sits, legs curled up, eyes closed with his head resting on top of his elbow on the arm of the couch. His coat is draped over the matching chair and his mobile lies on the floor. John steps down into the room and walks over to the couch. He picks up Sherlock’s mobile and puts it on the chair with Sherlock’s coat. Then John sits down beside Sherlock. As the couch shifts with John’s weight, Sherlock stirs and turns to John, blinking himself awake again.

John opens his mouth but then closes it again without saying anything. Sherlock slides his feet off the couch and sits up straight, still watching John. Then Sherlock scoots closer and, after a hesitation, puts his arm around John’s shoulders. John laughs once – barely, a huff, a breath of air – and looks at their shoes side by side on the floor.

“What do you need?” Sherlock asks, voice with a feeling born out of three years absence that John still finds foreign to his ears even in the time since.

John shakes his head and leans slightly into Sherlock. He doesn’t speak for a long time – maybe he forgot the question – until he whispers, “Mary.”


	2. John

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _"Sometimes I feel like I am living two lives.” He whispers. “One with you and one with her, same components but all jumbled together."_
> 
> _Sherlock remains silent for a minute then says, "Mary isn't coming back, John."_
> 
> _“No," John breathes in and shakes his head. "Not like you.”_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So this was going to be 2 chapters but now it looks like it will be 3, whoops!

John sits on the pale blue couch belonging to his mother and father in law. His shoes are shinned, not that he is in uniform but the act made his hands stop shaking so he shinned until his mobile began to buzz. The watch he wears is one Mary gave to him, a birthday present he thinks but cannot be sure. The suit is one Sherlock bought him, possibly before either of them died, another uncertainty. All John knows for sure is that the suit is black, as is the tie, and that is appropriate now.

Two platters sit on the coffee table, cups for tea and some biscuits. In the dining room is a large spread supplemented every ten minutes or so with an offering from another mourner. People in black move slowly through the rooms; black suits, black dresses, black shoes, even some black hats. A few minutes after each new dish appears in the dining room a person in black stops in front of John with small smiles and soft words like ‘so sorry’ or ‘my sympathies.’ John isn’t actually sure what he says back each time, only that he never stands up to greet them. Strictly speaking, John isn’t the host of the wake – he could not bear it, could not think straight to even realize he should have one – so he leaves propriety to Mary’s parents. 

Mostly the rooms are hushed, quiet conversations and low level sniffling from the occasional tear. Diane excused herself upstairs and John thinks now and then he can hear her gasping sobs. Lacey sits in a chair in a corner much like John, except that she does stand up each time a person comes with regrets. John thinks, perhaps the action is only automatic.

The flowers in the room are red. Every time John’s eye catches even one he thinks of their wedding, black and red, and it makes him want to throw up.

John plants a hand on the arm of the couch and pushes himself up to standing. A few people turn their heads; possibly they forgot he was still there. John sees one of Mary’s school friends take a step toward him but she hesitates then does not move again. John stares around the room, a sea of family and friends and colleagues. John doesn’t even have the energy to curse them for intruding on the pain.

“John?”

John turns to see Mary’s mother beside him. He smiles much like Sherlock and nods. She nods back and holds up a cup of tea. John smiles with a touch more feeling and takes the tea.

“Thank you.”

“There are cards for you,” she says and her voice sounds more controlled than John can believe. She points behind her slightly to the table in the hallway. John sees a basket, a small ribbon around the outside, with a pile of envelops. He looks back at Joan. “If you want them,” she says and puts her hands together, “I don’t know how many but, well, there they are.”

John nods once more. “All right.”

“Drink your tea, you look pale.”

John purses his lips and takes a small sip of the tea. It burns going down and that is the only good thing about it. 

“Would you…” Joan breathes through her nose, glances at the hall again. “Would you check on Diane?”

John glances as she did toward the hall and the stairs beyond his sight at this angle. He turns his eyes to her again. Joan fixes him with a look and John knows she is giving him an escape, if only for a few minutes.

“I will.”

John walks around her and places his cup of tea on the hall table beside the basket of cards. The envelope on top is red.

John climbs the stairs then turns to the right down the hall. He hears muffled whimpering behind the first closed door.

He knocks lightly. “Diane?”

She sighs loudly and sniffs at the same time. “What?”

“It’s John.”

“I can tell; what do you want?” She snaps but only half-heartedly.

“You mother wanted me to check on you.”

“Why?”

John rests his forehead against the door and sighs, arms crossed. “You know why.”

“I’m fine. I just want to be alone.”

“We all want that, Diane,” John says quietly then stands up straight. “You should come down at some point, don’t make Lacey do it all alone.”

“Oh, hang them all!” Diane snaps with more vehemence this time and John hears something thud onto the floor inside the room. “Tell them all to go home.”

‘I would if I could,’ John thinks then says after a beat. “Come down later.”

He turns and walks away without waiting for Diane to reply. John stops at the top of the stairs, hand on the banister. He can hear the conversation, snippets of ‘Mary’ floating up from many voices. John shuts his eyes and breathes in slowly. When he opens his eyes again he marches down the stairs, slips around one talking couple then opens the front door and walks right out. 

Down the stairs from the stoop, and at the end of the stone walk way, stands Sherlock. He turns at the sound of the door closing and John sees the cigarette in his hand. He blows out smoke then drops the cigarette on the road, crushing it with his foot.

“John?”

John walks swiftly off the stoop, over to Sherlock and stops right in front of him. “Get me out of here.”

Sherlock’s mobile is up at his ear before John even saw it appear in Sherlock’s hand. Two minutes later, a black car rolls up beside them – not a taxi and somewhere inside himself John thanks Mycroft. Sherlock opens the back door and John climbs inside without looking back at the house. The door shuts and John feels Sherlock sitting beside him. The car drives away without any instruction from himself or Sherlock. John leans over in the spacious seat and puts his head in his hands. He concentrates on breathing in and out and stares at his shinny shoes.

After five minutes, Sherlock reaches into John’s jacket pocket and pulls out his mobile. John hears Sherlock texting but John does not move his head. After another minute, Sherlock puts the mobile back in John’s pocket.

“What did you say?” John rasps.

“Appropriate apologies to your mother in law.”

“Thank you,” John whispers.

Sherlock makes a small affirming noise but nothing else. John is oddly grateful.

The car continues to drive, into the city, away from it, John cannot tell nor does he look up from the floor to check. It seems to be all he can do to breathe normally. Suddenly his mobile vibrates in his pocket. John yanks it out of his pocket and throws it harshly at the wall separating them from the driver. It bounces off and stops vibrating on the car floor.

John sighs and sits up, head back against the headrest of the car seat. He keeps his eyes closed. “Where are we going?”

Sherlock huffs. “You do not care, John.”

John grimaces and shakes his head. “No, no I don’t.”

\-----------------

John stays at Baker Street for a week after the funeral and the wake he ran away from. He cannot think of sleeping in the bed he shared with Mary again right now. He doubts he would be able to fall asleep in it if he tried. Instead, he falls asleep on Sherlock’s couch – it looks just like the couch they had before and John wonders if it is in fact the same one recovered by some Holmesian magic. He lies under a blanket, clearly a Mrs. Hudson addition shipped from Florida, to the sound of Sherlock typing. Sherlock hardly speaks and John wonders how Sherlock knows what John needs so well now when before he’d always been such a git. Not for the first time John thinks about what happened in those three years apart.

Sherlock types away on his computer, makes soft pleased noises and the occasional frustrated growl. He texts away on his mobile, disappears for hours at a time off on whatever case it must be. Sherlock’s mobile rings just once but Sherlock silences it immediately and does not check to see who called. John wonders if Sherlock is on some sort of ‘danger watch’ for him just like John used to do for Sherlock when Mycroft or he feared a relapse. Perhaps Sherlock realizes that nothing he could say would help and that John only wants a place away from everyone saying ‘I’m sorry.’ Maybe silence is just the best way Sherlock knows to help.

Once Sherlock puts on a film for the two of them to watch.

“Would you prefer _Diamonds are Forever_ or _Skyfall_?” Sherlock asks, holding up two unopened DVDs.

“ _Skyfall_.” 

Sherlock sits silently through the film, though he keeps his mobile in one hand and his thumb occasionally moves over the keys. John sits shoulder to shoulder with Sherlock, legs pulled up near his chest and not really seeing the TV. The words are just sounds and the images just light, something he can fade into with Sherlock as an anchor, warm and still.

John falls asleep on Sherlock four out of the seven nights he stays at Baker Street. Sherlock sits next him, a case file in one hand and his other hand on John’s shoulder as John leans against him. Somehow having Sherlock beside him, a living and breathing person who is asking nothing from him, calms John down and keeps his mind as empty as he wants it. When he wakes up in the morning under a blanket, Sherlock still sits beside him already awake on his computer or mobile as if no time passed during John’s sleep.

Once John wakes up in the middle of the night lying alone and it takes him ten minutes to control his heart beat and fall back to sleep. In the morning, his head is on Sherlock’s thigh and Sherlock sleeps in his blue dressing gown and his head on the arm of the couch. John does not move until he sees Sherlock’s eyes open and immediately look down at him.

John never goes out and he never thinks about anyone else. Perhaps it is selfish, perhaps he is hiding but John thinks he deserves to burrow into himself a little when his wife has died. Maybe he is hiding from her.

“John.” 

At first John thinks the voice is Mary, another morning before the coffee is brewed and his alarm has yet to blare.

“John.”

He sees Mary smiling down at him, hand on his temple. She laughs and says he’ll be late for work, does he want coffee, what about these shoes today, are we going out for dinner later, are you going to sleep all day? Her fingers in his hair, I love you, you know; get up, John.

“John?”

John breathes out and opens his eyes. Sherlock looks down at him from where he stands beside the couch.

“Sherlock,” John whispers.

Sherlock tilts his head and raises his eyebrows. John sits up slowly and touches the side of his head for a moment before dropping his hand.

“I have to go home now.”

\-----------------

Unlike with Sherlock, John starts to pack up Mary’s things right away. The two of them had a whole house full of things and now every piece of it says ‘Mary, Mary, Mary.’ 

He doesn’t want the couches, he doesn’t want the chairs, he doesn’t want the shelves in the office full of her books, he doesn’t want the bed.

He fills boxes and labels them accordingly. He hears Mary say, ‘don’t ruin my books’ and he wraps each one in paper. He fills suitcases with Mary’s clothes and offers them to Diane and Lacy.

“I can’t wear them.” Lacy shakes her head. “It’s morbid.”

“We can’t sell them!” Diane insists.

“Well, we can’t just stick them in a closet or an attic, can we?”

“Don’t you want them?” Diane insists.

John shakes his head. “No.”

He gives the sisters Mary’s jewelry too. It’s not as though any of the pieces are heirlooms but he guesses that sisters would want those sort of things.

“You bought her this.” Lacy smiles at John. “She told me you were sentimental.”

John smiles back at the heart shaped necklace in Lacy’s hand. “She probably meant corny.”

Lacy giggles. “Same thing.”

“I didn’t even know she had pearls,” Diane says as she holds them to the light.

“Because she never wore them.” John taps them once so they sway in the air as Diane holds them. “She said they were ‘old professor’ and she didn’t think she qualified for that.”

Lacy shakes her head. “Not at all.”

“Pearls aren’t old; they’re distinguished.” Diane frowns. “She should have worn them.”

John watches the pearls as they rock slower and slower, sees Mary holding the pearls and laughing at John’s idea of a sweater and pencil skirt ‘now you’re projecting fantasies’ and how she looked like a teenager with stolen goods. “You can wear them for her.” John says and grips the pearls so they stop moving.

John cleans out the kitchen, empties the cabinets of food and dishware alike. He cleans the whole thing until it gleams like a show room, perfect for the next resident.

John puts mementos in boxes, framed photos and albums. He sits on the floor surrounded by packing materials while he pages through their wedding album. Mary and he smile in every photo; walking down the aisle together with Mary’s bouquet held up in the air, dancing their first dance, Mary and her bridesmaids all in a line, cutting the cake, Mary dancing with her father, John dancing with Harry and they both laughing half doubled over, John dancing with Sherlock – even a smile there, Mary throwing the bouquet, the two of them in a dramatic twirl arm’s length apart, him and Mary seated alone at the head table with sleepy smiles and their heads together.

“Oh, Mary,” John whispers.

Glasses and dictionaries, DVDs and old notebooks, magnets from Paris and a painted pot from Italy, good shoes and worn shoes, a leather jacket and an ugly striped tie with a whale on top all pack into boxes upon boxes, a few boxes to keep and more for storage; each thing which comes off the wall or out of a drawer makes the house less and less his and Mary’s. 

“Are you going to sell the furniture?” Diane asks.

“Why, do you want some?”

Diane frowns. “I’m not grave robbing.”

“Diane…”

“I only…”

Lacy touches Diane’s arm. “It’s just furniture, Diane.”

“But it was hers!”

“And mine.” John looks at Diane and rips the plastic off another roll of packing tape. “She’s not in the cushions, Diane.”

Diane frowns deeply at him. “Sell them then, what does it matter?”

When Diane storms out Lacy stays behind for a minute, whispers to John, “I know what you’re doing,” before she follows her sister.

John pulls his own things out of drawers, removes himself just as much. He sees Mary moving his shirts around when she tried to prove a point that he never wore blue except in his jeans. ‘See? Not a single blue shirt!’

John turns the house into a mirror of the day they first moved in, excited and new and ready to be ‘married’ in any and all senses they could pull from the word. No more curtains frame the windows and the furniture is wrapped in plastic. If he turns his head to the side John sees some other place, a house totally alien with no memories or life attached.

It is not that John is trying to forget Mary, far from it. They bought this house together and it was never meant for one. John will not change that now.

\------------------

John rents a new flat. It reminds him far too much of the first bedsit he moved into after his army discharge. The place is bigger at least; it has an actual kitchen, bedroom and sitting room instead of just the one combine, bathroom too, of course. 

“Last box,” Greg says as he puts it down beside the desk.

“Thanks.”

Greg looks around the sitting room once and crosses his arms. “You sure about this? You could still move back into your house, you know.”

John chuckles. “I’m sure.”

Greg gives him an incredulous look.

“Thanks for helping with the boxes.”

Greg shakes his head and shrugs. “All right then. Don’t be shy around the Yard, eh?”

“Got it.”

John bought a new bed, stole a dresser from Harry, nicked a pair of chairs from Lacy which she said were only dusting in storage anyway to fill up the space. The last tenants left a desk so John has somewhere to put his laptop. Day one in the new flat and it feels as though someone has kicked him back to square one.

He imagines Mary would have given him the same look Greg did about this place. John rubs a hand over his eyes and sees Mary carrying a box into their house the first day they moved in. “Dishware most important.” Sweat on her face but still that triumphant smile. “I need something to eat. Forget the rest of it; we can sit on the floor.” John opens his eyes again. He has chairs here but no dishes.

“You would have thought of dishes,” John says to the empty room.

Somewhere in the back of his head Mary laughs at him, pleasant and teasing and followed up by a quip about getting him a new set because she cannot let him succumb to using his hands.

Then someone knocks on John’s door. John stares at the wood for a good thirty seconds before it sinks in and he moves forward to open the door. Sherlock stands on the other side, slight frown on his face. John stares at him then moves aside so Sherlock can swoop in. Sherlock stops a few paces past John and holds out a take away container without looking at John. When John doesn’t take it right away, Sherlock turns and looks back at him.

“Be serious, John, do you expect me to believe you’ve eaten already?”

John shuts the door and takes the container; it smells like curry. “You brought me food?”

Sherlock turns on his heel to face John. “What else do you think would be inside there?”

John swallows and feels a smile trying to reach his lips. “I don’t know, human fingers?”

Sherlock smirks. “I wouldn’t give it to you then.”

“I don’t have a fork.”

Reaching into his coat pocket, Sherlock pulls out a plastic fork and holds it out. John takes both then looks back and forth between his hands. Sherlock steps forward then steers John to the right by his shoulders into the kitchen. Sherlock pulls out the chair in front of the kitchen table and whips it around so the seat is toward John.

“Sit down.”

John puts the take away down on the table. He moves to sit and Sherlock pushes in the chair under him as he does so. 

Sherlock claps his hands on John’s shoulders. “And now the fork is for spearing the food with, surely you remember?”

John snorts in amusement despite himself. Sherlock squeezes John’s shoulders once then stands up straight. He walks back into the living room and kneels down just in John’s view beside one box. He pulls a pocket knife from his pocket – of course he has one – and slices open the box. John sighs softly, watching Sherlock pull out books and John’s army mug, then he opens the take away box. The flat feels a bit lighter now.

\------------------

John sits at his desk at work reading a patient file in front of him. Carol covered his patients while he was out but he has a lot to review before starting. He wants to be up to date as soon as possible though.

Someone knocks at John’s door and he looks up. “Hi.” Sharon, one of the morning nurses, smiles at him. “You’re back.”

John smiles back. “I am.”

“I, uh, so sorry about –“

“Yeah, thanks, yeah.”

She nods. “We sent you a –“

“I got it, thank you. I meant to send a –“

“Oh no,” She waves a hand and laughs a touch awkwardly. “You don’t need to send us a thank you card for…. Well.”

John raises his eyebrows and nods. “So…” He flicks one hand up.

“Oh!” She takes one step back. “Just wanted to say hi since you’re back and all, see how you are.”

“I’m fine.”

She nods. “Okay.”

When John says nothing else she nods again then backs up and walks out of his doorway. He hears her walking down the hall and his shoulders sag slightly. He drops his pen and rubs a hand over his face.

“John!”

John sighs as quietly as possible into his palm. “Aziz.” He drops his hand to see the other doctor in his door way. Alice stands beside him. “Dr. Yates.”

Alice waves. “Hi.”

They walk into John’s office and he wonders why in the hell he didn’t lock his door as soon as he came in this morning. Aziz strides over to John’s desk and sits on the edge. Alice remains standing in front of it, hands behind her back.

“To what do I owe the pleasure?” John asks.

“Well, you have been out a while, missed you terribly, all that.”

Alice sighs. “Really, Aziz.”

He flashes her a look and smiles with all his teeth. She sighs again and crosses her arms. Then she looks at John. “How’re you doing?”

John clenches his fist once and smiles at her. “I’m all right.”

“All right?”

“Yes.” Aziz makes a ‘hmm’ noise. John looks at him. “I said ‘yes.’”

“You’re out of your house?” Aziz asks.

“Yes.”

He raises his eyebrows. “To where?”

“Just a flat.”

“A flat?”

John shakes his head. “It’s only temporary until I sell the house.”

“Oh well,” Aziz nods, “I see.”

“John, we…” Alice cuts in.

John stares at her while she fidgets. She shoots a look at Aziz but he does not meet her gaze. 

“What?” John presses.

“It’s just…” Alice bites her lower lip with her teeth. “Should you be back already? Are you ready?“

“I am, Alice, don’t worry. I would not be back yet if I wasn’t.”

Aziz stands up from the desk. “Not that we don’t want you back, of course, but…”

“Look, I’m here, I want to work; you guys have done your duty now can I read these?” He waves a hand over the folders on his desk.

Alice clicks her teeth and glances at Aziz. He looks down at her and raises both eyebrows. They both turn and look back to John. John folds his hands together and gives them his serious doctor stare.

Aziz snorts. “All right, but give us a buzz if you need? I don’t mind swooping in like your knight in shining armor.” He grins.

Alice rolls her eyes.

“I will keep that in mind, thanks.”

Once the two of them are out his door, John leans back in his chair and stares at the ceiling. He hears Mary say, ‘you knew this would happen’ and strangely it sounds like Sherlock saying it too. 

“Don’t you two team up against me,” John whispers to the air.

“Knock knock!” Someone says at John’s door.

John shuts his eyes. It is going to be a very long day.

Eight hours later, what seems like every nurse in the hospital and half the doctors have come by to ask after him and express some level of remorse. Aziz has come twice more and Alice brought him lunch. In fact, the nursing staff seem to have had a rolling schedule of bringing him alternating coffee and tea every hour probably in a ploy to check on him. They’re lucky he didn’t throw the mugs back at them.

As John puts his patient folders into piles to finally go home for the day, he senses someone standing in his doorway. John clenches his teeth together but makes himself look up. 

When he sees who it is John breathes out slowly and smiles. “Hi.”

Sherlock glances around the office – frowns once and John knows there is some deduction or observation there he’ll want to hear about later – then Sherlock eyes rest on John. “John.”

John stands for a minute behind his desk and thinks Sherlock probably hates hospitals. Morgues are no problem as those mean people already dead and a case to be had. The lab at Barts is not really a hospital, just a place with the equipment Sherlock needs. The way Sherlock stands – tense as if ready to run – tells John that childhood fights and drug addiction have only made Sherlock despise hospitals in any fashion.

John smiles and pulls his mobile out of his desk. There are no waiting messages. John looks up and puts the mobile in his pocket.

“You did not have to drink all the coffee they brought you,” Sherlock says.

John’s lip twitches and he shrugs. “Just a sip from each.”

“And the tea.”

“Especially the tea.”

Sherlock smirks. “Dinner?”

“Yeah.”

John steps around his desk and follows the swirl of Sherlock’s coat out of his office.

\------------------

John keeps comparing Mary’s death to Sherlock’s. Slow and struggling and this muted, quiet pain he lives in as opposed to sharp and sudden and what felt like fire around him every second so he suffocated on the fumes. He keeps looking back at what happened to him when Sherlock jumped off that building, how he fell apart. He does not understand why he isn’t falling to pieces now. 

He knows he’s depressed, knows he misses her, knows he feels that ache where she should be but he’s not trapped in bed all day or pushing everyone around him away. His wife is dead and yet he is still in once piece, packed up the house and back to work. He isn’t sobbing in a corner or drunk at two in the afternoon. It feels like his grief is so much calmer than last time.

“You cannot compare grief, John.”

John stares at the table, wants to find an answer in the mug ring stained coffee shop wood. “It’s just… different this time.”

“As you have tried to explain to me in the past, John, emotions are neither quantifiable nor logical.”

“But she was my wife!”

Sherlock looks up from his mobile. “And are you not mourning?”

“Yes, of course I am.”

“Well then?”

“I just…” John looks out the window.

John is not a masochist; he does not want to feel torn in half or suicidal or as if the world will never revolve again without her face. Yet he also feels wrong that his grief now is less than it seemed for Sherlock.

“You grief is not less, John.” John’s head snaps back to Sherlock and he tilts his head in question at Sherlock’s mind reading. “It is only different.”

“Since when do you know so much about this, then?”

“John, do not turn to old tactics of flipping the conversation. It is juvenile and will not help you.”

John rubs a hand through his hair. “But what does it mean?”

Sherlock sighs and frowns. “Don’t be tiresome, John.”

“I’m serious!” John snaps. He feels a lump in his throat and it only makes him angrier. “Why am I so together when I should be falling apart? I miss her every second. I want her here right now. I want to reach over and have her hand right there!” John smacks the table once. “But here I am having coffee and swallowing it just fine. Does that…” John sighs and closes his eyes, voice barely audible. “Does it mean I cared about you more than her that I fell apart so much then and not now?”

When John opens his eyes again, Sherlock is watching him. His lips are pressed together and his face betrays nothing at all. He puts his mobile down and breathes in once through his nose before clicking his tongue. “John, I jumped off a building while you watched. Mary took considerably longer to die with you by her side the whole time.”

“And?” John rasps.

“You had time to prepare for this, John, even if you think you did not.” Sherlock picks up his mobile again. “You were mourning even before she died.”

\------------------

John still talks to Mary.

He talked to Sherlock after 'the fall.' He’d think of something Sherlock would have said or he’d say something casually still knowing that Sherlock wasn’t really there. It was words that came out now and then, not a conscious act. 

Now John lies in bed at night, eyes on the ceiling, and he talks to Mary.

“I got coffee today at the café where you crashed into me.” He smiles. “I still think it was you that crashed into me. I was in the army; I don’t crash.” He looks at the street lights filtering through the window. “I remembered your black purse you never wanted to throw away even after the strap broke. I never asked if it was because it was the one you had when we met or something else.” He chuckles. “Am I too sentimental, Mary?”

He tells her about his day, about amusing things his patients said or problems at work.

“I took a round in the ER today; we have a lot of people out. Two cases of alcohol poisoning before five. I missed some party, looks like.” He rolls onto his side to look at the wall. “You would have liked the one girl, she kept trying to quote poetry.”

He tells her about the happy things, about when he smiles. 

“Sherlock took me to lunch today. Yes, his idea. You would be proud. He spent the whole time talking about a case he’d just finished without me and how the whole thing ended up hinging on shoe color. I haven’t been that relaxed all week.”

He talks about when he misses her.

“I walked by Oxford today, counted the windows until I found your office.” 

“I wore the pink shirt to work today. I’m sorry it took me so long but I did promise.” John breathes in slowly and blinks until he can see clearly. “No whale tie though, not for anyone but you.”

He sighs and closes his eyes. “I promise, Mary, I’ll be fine. I will.”

\-----------------

John sits in a pub booth with Greg and Molly across from him. Molly got a new haircut a few weeks ago and John still isn’t used to seeing her hair so short. It is practically as short as Sherlock’s but it does become her. Greg sips his pint and looks at his watch a few times too many as they drink. John wonders if there is a case he and Sherlock might end up pulled in on again, on the sly of course.

“Do you like your new place?” Molly asks as she drinks a pint.

John tilts his bottle and chugs a bit more. “Eh.”

“That a no?” Greg asks.

“It’s just a flat.”

“Are you planning on leaving London?” Molly asks suddenly with alarm.

“What?” John frowns. “No.” Molly and Greg both sigh with relief. “Why would you think that and why such a huge sigh of relief?”

Greg snorts and drinks a huge gulp of his brew.

“Don’t you think we’d miss you?” Molly says, teasing smile.

“Ha ha.”

“It’s just you describing your flat like a hotel room,” Molly continues.

“And,” Greg insists, “if you leave and I have to have Sherlock back cold turkey I may kill him or myself.” He drinks again. “Or both.”

“I feel for you.”

Greg rolls his eyes and elbows Molly just a bit. She flashes him a look and shakes her head.

“So, about Mary,” Greg starts.

John puts his bottle down and sits up straighter. “Yeah?”

“Do you remember the time at your one Christmas party where she stuck the mistletoe on the back of your sweater and everyone kept kissing you?”

John laughs so hard he nearly drops his bottle, “Oh god, yes, and she pretended to be angry with me until she pulled out the present of a new Christmas sweater because she secretly hated the one I had.”

Molly giggles. “She told me she’d been planning it for a month and told everyone not to hold back.”

“If I remember you left a big lipstick mark on my cheek, Molly.”

Molly only flutters her eyelashes and pretends she’s not blushing.

“I still think my dip was the best.” Greg shakes his beer mug. “Classy.”

“I nearly punched you.”

Molly giggles again as Greg shakes his head. “Almost.”

“When Mary made those three pies and brought it to your office?” Molly says to Greg.

He smiles. “Wanted to keep them all for myself.”

John smiles. “I never did understand how she could make such a good pie but nothing else.”

Molly laughs once. “You sure she actually made them?”

John’s mouth drops open. “Molly!”

“Hey!” She shrugs. “I’ve pulled the ‘take it from a box and say it’s your own’ game before.”

“Vixen,” Greg whispers in her ear so Molly blushes again and pushes his face away.

John presses his lips together and sips his beer. Ah ha. Wonder how long that’s been happening.

“My favorite was when she would start reciting Shakespeare to prove a point,” Molly says, pretending to ignore Greg and his pouting look.

John grins. “Oh yes, ‘to thine own self be true, except when I’m right.’”

Greg holds up his glass. “’Once more unto the breach’ as she passed out the beers.”

“Didn’t she do the whole ‘to be or not to be’ at dinner once?” Molly asks. “You told me that.”

John nods. “I dared her. She would have stood up on her chair too if I hadn’t advised moderation.”

They all laugh again, Greg’s hand on Molly’s arm and John feels warm and happy for a moment. He forgot how talking about Mary, about who she was and when she was happy, makes him feel. He knows it should hurt but it doesn’t; it’s therapy better than any psychologist chair and he wants to laugh on and on about every little moment of her he can remember. Mary would have approved.

\--------------------

“As much as I love breaking and entering, Sherlock, could you hurry up?”

“Learn to lock pick if you find me so inadequate.”

John growls. “I’m serious.”

“So am I.” Sherlock turns the door knob and opens the back door of their suspect’s row house.

John forces back a grin then follows Sherlock inside, quickly shutting the door behind him. They step over a doormat and into the kitchen, small but clean and organized. A few mugs and a butter knife wait in the sink. An open box of tea and a bowl with fruit sit on the kitchen counter. Sherlock turns the box of tea around, Earl Gray, then strides out of the kitchen.

“Where are we – Sherlock, wait!” John whispers.

“Keep up, John.”

“Are we sure no one is home?” John says as he quickly side steps a kitchen chair and jogs after Sherlock into the living room.

“Do you see any lights on?”

“That’s not an answer.”

“I am sure.”

Sherlock weaves around cushioned chairs and one couch in the living room. He stops in front of the TV and crouches low for a moment. He picks up a DVD and turns is twice, takes off one glove then touches the DVD player with his palm. He then puts the DVD back down and slides his glove back on. Sherlock stands up straight and walks backward two steps just before he would hit the low coffee table.

“So?”

“Well, she wasn’t watching telly all night yesterday like she claims, that is sure.”

“And?”

Sherlock points upward with one hand. John stupidly looks up then shakes his head and sighs. “Bedroom or bath?”

Sherlock turns and grins. “Both.”

John grins back and hits the stairs, Sherlock right on his heels. He stops on the landing and turns the only way possible to the left. This floor only has the two rooms so John picks the bath. 

“What am I looking for?” John asks as he opens the medicine cabinet.

“Anything,” Sherlock calls from the other room.

John closes the cabinet and looks at his own face in the mirror. He sighs at himself. “You’re the one who came along.” He shakes his head and looks down at the sink. He notices three toothbrushes in a clear cup on the corner.

He tilts his head. “I thought she lived alone?”

“She does.”

“There are three toothbrushes.”

Sherlock appears at John’s side two seconds later. He picks up the cup and holds it up right in front of his nose. His lip quirks and he puts the cup down again. Then he swirls back out into the hall and across into the bedroom. 

“Sher…” John follows after and into the bedroom, brown comforter and pillows askew on the bed visible in the dim light from the street lamps.

Sherlock kneels down then holds up a pair of blue women’s underwear with two gloved fingers. “Someone has had a guest.”

“Sherlock, don’t –“

“And I don’t think it was her brother.”

“Put those down!” John hisses.

Sherlock drops the underwear and claps his hands together. “I smell motive.”

John frowns. “I… I’m not going there.”

Suddenly John hears a noise which is very clearly a key in the front door. He and Sherlock lock eyes. Sherlock looks down at the bed.

John shakes his head. “No.”

Then Sherlock drops to the floor.

“No,” John hisses, “Sher – damn it.”

John drops and scoots as fast as he can under the bed. John turns to glare at Sherlock in the darkness made by the bed skirt.

“I will kill you,” he whispers.

Sherlock only puts a finger to his lips as they hear footsteps on the stairs. The footsteps grow louder and then enter the bedroom. John hears a thump on the bed above them, likely the woman’s purse hitting when she threw it there. She sighs loudly and clicks around on the wood floor some more. The closet door opens once and John hears what must be her shoes coming off.

“Shite…” she whispers and sighs again.

As she walks around the room, Sherlock pulls out his mobile and texts something quickly. John nudges Sherlock and shakes his head in question. Sherlock only raises his eyebrows and somehow pockets his mobile again in the confined space.

Then their suspect’s footsteps seem to walk away. John hears the bathroom door close with a sharp click. Almost immediately Sherlock sides out from under the bed, John following a second after. Sherlock whips around the bed and grabs John’s wrist, pulling him out of the room and silently down the stairs. Sherlock crosses the sitting room in front of John when something falls upstairs and they hear the bathroom door open. 

“Hello?” The woman calls hesitantly.

Sherlock yanks John forward. They run through the kitchen, hit the back door and then out into the yard.

“Here!” Sherlock points to the gate just as he slams into it and somehow sends them both falling through.

They race down the alley until they come out onto the next street. Finally they stop, panting against the building wall. John peeks back down the alley they came up just in case but there is no one.

“Ugh,” John groans, “so much running.”

Sherlock huffs. “Hardly.”

“I sit at a desk most of the day. This is a lot.”

Sherlock snorts

“All right, all right.” John chuckles. “Good to get out of the flat though.”

“Your breadbox.”

“Ha, a bit. Good reason not to go home.”

Sherlock scoffs. “Home.”

“It’s what I’ve got.”

They stand in silence for moment as they start to breathe slower. John knocks his head back against the wall and looks up at the stars, faint from light pollution but still there. Sherlock stands up suddenly and straightens his coat. He turns his head to gaze at John, his serious face on. John tilts his head back, breathing nearly normal now. He raises both eyebrows.

Sherlock looks away down the street and puts his hands in his pockets. “Just come back to Baker Street, John.”

John watches Sherlock’s back, that coat John has followed so many times. Sherlock head shifts just a bit, his focus on what is behind him, waiting. 

John looks at his hands and smiles. “Okay.”

\------------------

John balances a box in one arm, a bag over his shoulder as well, while he unlocks the front door of Baker Street with the other hand. He walks up the stairs and into the old flat. It's only been a few weeks since he has been here but last time was only for ten minutes when Sherlock needed some ammonium. Standing in the door now the flat reminds him of years ago, those same two chairs and Sherlock’s violin.

Sherlock himself is seated on the couch with his computer in his lap.

“You going to help me?” John asks.

“Hmm,” Sherlock replies which means he isn’t listening.

John rolls his eyes then turns back to the hall. He climbs up the stairs to the second bedroom which was always his before it became his and Mary’s for a time. Oddly the room does not remind him much of Mary. He knows they shared it once but before that it was his alone. Somehow the place seems to have circled all the way back. He imagines Mary would have laughed and turned that into a metaphor.

‘The circle of time, John?’

John smiles then puts the box and the bag down on the bed. “Somehow I always end up back here.”

It takes John a minute, after he has started to pull out a few things from his bag, to realize the bed is made with gray sheets and a black comforter. John pulls his hands out of his bag and stares. He did not bring those or buy them. John looks up around the room more critically this time. The old side table he and Mary left is still there but the lamp is new, something vaguely IKEA. The dresser by the closet is new as well, a dark wood that shines when John shifts from side to side. The curtains on the window could be new but to be honest, John never paid them much attention. A blue cushioned chair John does not recognize sits under the window. 

“Huh…” John chews the inside of his cheek for a moment then heads back downstairs.

Sherlock still sits on the couch, cross legged now and typing fast. John coasts his eyes around the room and realizes something strange.

“Did you clean?”

Sherlock stops typing.

The table between the windows is completely clear, minus a polite pile of newspaper print outs. John sees a couple of boxes under the table, one stacked neatly on top of the other. The book shelves in the wall flanking the fireplace are both full of books along with a few other hodgepodge items. However, as John looks closer, the books are in alphabetical order by author and there are no loose books lying on top of others or even any dangling off the edge of shelves. Each row of books has some item or two nicely keeping the books standing straight – a large external hard drive as well as a box of padlocks to name a few. The shelves around the entrance to the kitchen hold only the printer and a lamp on one side while the other displays a few personal items – a small Japanese sword and three framed sets of butterflies. The small book shelf beside the couch in the corner has two neat rows of books with the top shelf holding a few framed photographs and Sherlock’s skull. The mantel piece is completely clear, no dirty coffee mugs or pierced in knives. The mirror over the mantel is unobstructed and all the surfaces – lamps and TV included – appear to be dusted.

John slowly looks down at Sherlock. Sherlock continues staring at his computer screen with his lips pursed.

“You cleaned.” Sherlock faces twitches and John smiles. “You cleaned!”

John walks in and over to the kitchen. On the table where often an array of chemistry supplies take up space, tea for two sits. 

“And you made tea.”

Sherlock eyes slide to the side but he says nothing. John rocks on his heels once then steps into the kitchen. He adds sugar and milk to two cups then pours in some tea. He picks up the tea by the saucers, walks back into the living room and around to the side of the couch.

John holds out one cup of tea to Sherlock. “Is this how you say ‘welcome back?’”

Sherlock finally looks up from his laptop. “No.” He pushes his laptop onto the coffee table then reaches up and takes a tea from John. 

John sits down beside Sherlock and blows on his tea.

Sherlock takes a sip of his and glances at John. “This is how I say ‘stay.’”

\-----------------------

John pushes the buzzer at the building entrance and checks his mobile again. He clicks his tongue and glances down the street behind him. He pushes the buzzer again.

“Hi, yeah,” the call box crackles once, “who is it?”

“It’s John.”

“Diane, could you – fuck – sorry. John, yeah, come on up.”

The door buzzes and John pulls the knob. He climbs up the three flights, passing one door cracked open and what sounds like a football game on inside, before he knocks on Lacy’s door just to the left of the stairs. He hears something fall inside and a cat meowing.

“Can you make it shut up!” He hears Diane shout.

“I told you to leave Winston alone!”

“It is just a –“ something else crashes and John cannot quite discern which curses Diane chooses.

Then the door swings open, Lacy with wet hair and a t-shirt on. John’s mouth drops open for a second as Lacy has neglected to put on trousers but she scoffs at him. “Oh really, you’re my brother in law.”

“Emphasis on the ‘in law,’ you could of –“

“I was in the shower and Diane was being…” She grumbles and walks backward waving a hand. “Come on.”

“Diane is…” John raises an eyebrow. “Staying with you.”

Lacy breathes in slowly and nods. “Yup, for a month.”

“A month.”

“A month,” Lacy says definitively.

John purses his lips. “Okay.”

“So,” Lacy walks to the right into the kitchen then straight through again into the living and dining room. Diane is sitting in one of the large bay windows, the tabby cat stalking back and forth underneath. She shoots a cursory smile at John then goes back to her book. “Have you come for tea?” Lacy looks at the clock in the wall between the two windows then twirls around to face John again. “Or something else?”

“Actually,” John clears his throat and focuses on Lacy’s now blond hair and absolutely nothing else, “I came to get a few boxes.”

At that Diane perks up in the window. “What?”

“Oh!” Lacy nods. “Sure, yeah, you wanna?” She points behind her then leads John on past the couch and into the little hall, bedroom on the left and bath on the right with a closet door straight ahead.

“Could you…” John points at Lacy’s bedroom. “Just, could…”

Lacy sighs. “God, fine.” She ducks into the room and comes out a few seconds later with a pair of boxer shorts on. “Better?”

“Marginally.”

“I don’t think Mary is going to yell at you.”

“Oh, believe me, I can hear her right now.”

Lacy cracks a smile at that. She turns and opens the closet door and pulls the cord for the light. The closet is large enough that one person can walk in, shelves on all sides. To the right are towels and sheets of mostly the green and yellow shade while on the left are dozens of Tupperware bins filled with clothes, nail polish, paints, beads, a soldering iron; John stops trying to catalog it all. The back shelf contains a number of cardboard boxes, the third shelf up holds a few labeled ‘Mary and John.’

“Do you want them all?” Lacy asks. “I think there is four, can you carry all that?”

“There’s just two I wanted now. I can get the others later, if you don’t mind?”

Lacy shakes her head. “No, no, I…” She smiles softly. “I kind of like having them here.” 

John breathes out audibly. “Yeah.” He point around her at two of the boxes. “The winter clothes there and the small Oxford box.”

“Isn’t that just class notes?”

John shakes his head. “It has momentous too.”

Lacy pulls the large box down and hands it to John, following with the smaller one on top. “Got it?”

“Yeah, thanks.” John backs up a few steps so Lacy can exit the closet.

She pulls the light off again then closes the door. She shifts her weight to the side and chews her lip. “How’re you?”

“I’m good.”

“Good?”

John nods slowly. “Yes, back to work, everything.”

Lacy stands up straight and crosses her arms. “Moved back to that old flat, haven’t you?”

“Yeah.”

“The one with that guy that faked his death?”

John coughs and nods. “Uh, yeah.”

“Uh huh.”

“It’s just…”

“No, no.” Lacy points toward the living room. “I mean I’ve got… I understand.”

John nods. “She doing okay?”

Lacy scratches her head and nods. “Uh, yeah, mostly, yeah. She’s always been… well, you know. I think though… well, she has a job now and is only late about half the time, so I call that a plus.” Lacy grins.

“What about you?”

Lacy smiles. “I am. I’m good. I remember the good things, you know?” John nods. “I wear that one necklace of hers, the one with the three purple flowers, just about every day. Makes me feel like she’s with me.”

“That’s good.”

“Yeah, seeing a guy too.” John raises both eyebrows and Lacy grins broader. “Oh yeah. He’s a catch; looks like Idris Elba and can throw me over his shoulder without a problem. It’s marvelous.”

John shifts the boxes in his arms and clears his throat. “And I am not going to think any deeper on that.”

Lacy giggles. “Well, I suspect you want to be off?”

“Sorry, want to get these home.”

Lacy holds an arm out indicating the hall and they walk back out into the living room. Diane sits up in the window as they come in and puts down her book. She smiles at John but doesn’t say anything.

“Diane.”

“John.”

John looks at her for moment but just smiles and nods once more. Diane holds up a hand for a wave but stays sitting where she is. John follows Lacy through the kitchen again and out to the front door. She flips the lock and holds open the door. John walks through and turns back with a smile for ‘goodbye.’

“John, are you…” Lacy asks suddenly, before John can move to the stairs. “Are you really doing better?”

“Yeah,” John nods. “Yeah, I think so.”

\-----------------------

When John takes Sherlock with him to Mary’s grave the sun shines and no wind blows. John brings flowers, small things he already forgets the name of. He cannot guarantee Mary would have liked them. Her opinion on flowers changed by the season, sometimes beautiful and other times a crime against snow. It does not matter though because he knows she would smile either way at the gesture.

“Are we entering or not, John?”

John blinks back to himself and smiles up at Sherlock. “Yeah, this way.”

Sherlock ‘hmms’ and John sees his hand twitch in want of a cigarette. The Déjà vu is not unexpected. 

John takes them left down a narrow row. The grave yard is far less spacious than others John has been forced to visit before. Some of Mary’s family members are buried here and her mother insisted. It never really mattered where to John, mostly that she had somewhere. They turn right and up four rows before they cross into the graves again and stop in front of a modest, gray stone.

“Hi, Mary,” John whispers.

Sherlock sighs beside him but refrains from what no doubt was something akin to ‘she cannot hear you.’

John crouches and places the flowers on the grave. A fresh bunch of lilies are in the flower holder on the left of the grave. John suspects they are from Mary’s father, not more than a few days old. John stands again then backs up a step in line with Sherlock.

“Wonderful. Are we off?”

John turns his head and gives Sherlock a glare. Sherlock frowns for only a moment before forcing out a smile and putting his hands in his pockets.

"I did this same thing with Mary, you know,” John says after a minute, “flowers to your grave"

"I imagine she was more magnanimous than I." 

John smiles. "Isn't everyone?"

“True.” Sherlock’s hand shifts in his pocket and John wonders if it’s cigarettes or mobile. Then Sherlock shakes his head. “Why would you bring flowers to my grave, John? It is a ridiculous gesture.”

“You know the act wasn’t really for you, right?”

Sherlock makes another ‘hmm’ noise which could be genuine learning of social behavior or confirmation of John’s point. For a second, John wonders just what Sherlock’s reaction would be to the death of someone he cared for; what would Sherlock have done if John was the one who jumped off a building? He remembers the way Sherlock reacted to Irene’s supposed death, a woman whom Sherlock had barely known when it came down to it. How many violin pieces would Sherlock have written for John? Would Sherlock have come to John’s grave to grieve?

John tilts his head then leans forward and brushes off some leaves from the top of Mary’s grave. He knows more will collect later but Mary always tried to keep their flat and their house clean. John can do the same for her.

John sighs and rubs a hand over his eyes. He remembers Mary standing beside him when he was reading Sherlock’s name. Her hand squeezing his, ‘you need to tell me about him…’ His hand on the grave speaking to Sherlock, ‘I really like her, maybe you would have too.’ It’s so surreal to have the situation flipped around now. How many people can say something like that? 

“This is surreal,” John says out loud.

“My presence or some mirrored memories?” Sherlock asks.

“Both.”

“The similarities?”

“And some differences.”

John sees Sherlock look at him out of the corner of his eye. “Do you… would you rather I… left?”

“No.” John shakes his head. "Sometimes I feel like I am living two lives.” He whispers. “One with you and one with her, same components but all jumbled together." 

Sherlock remains silent for a minute then says, "Mary isn't coming back, John."

“No," John breathes in and shakes his head. "Not like you.” He smiles at Sherlock. “But you were always special.”

The corner of Sherlock’s mouth quirks up but he says nothing. John can’t help but notice how often Sherlock holds his tongue now. He wonders if that came from three years without him or the time after. Maybe Sherlock just has more mysteries now. John turns back to Mary’s grave.

He thinks, ‘I told you I would be okay, Mary.’

‘Mostly,’ he hears her say, sees her smile, sees her cock her head to the side. ‘Don’t forget to keep missing me. I must be immortal.’

John smiles to himself, ‘Never, Mary.’

“John?” 

“Let’s go.” John touches Sherlock’s arm and turns them both away from the grave.

They walk back through the grass, crunching on leaves, and out through the gates. Sherlock pulls a pack of cigarettes from his pocket as they exit but John snatches it out of his hand.

“John, you –“

“Nope.”

“I did not ask you to –“

“Sorry.”

“John, I have been –“

“Too bad, not happening.”

“If I wanted to I could get those –“

“Back from me?” John snorts. “Try it.”

Sherlock frowns petulantly. “Mary would have been on my side.”

John chuckles and almost gives the pack back just for that. “Maybe.”

Sherlock frowns and puts his hands back in his pockets. “Fine, John.”

Sherlock walks ahead of John toward the road. A wind suddenly whips through the trees and send’s the end of Sherlock’s coat rippling. Sherlock stops at the road then turns to look over his shoulder, curly hair flipping into his eyes.

“Come on, John.”

John realizes suddenly, why hadn’t he before, that everything is different this time because right from the start he’s had someone to fall into instead of falling alone.

\------------------------

John sits by the fireplace with a book Harry gave him, some crime novel she was convinced he would enjoy because ‘you’re doing that stuff again.’ He’s only reading it to prove to her how not real it is. Across the room Sherlock lies on the couch with a stack of cold case files on his chest.

“Hung himself.” Sherlock closes the file and puts it on the floor.

“Suicide or accident?”

Sherlock chuckles but before he can answer his mobile begins to buzz. Sherlock picks it up and frowns, sliding a thumb across the screen to off. “No.”

“Who was it?”

“No one I wish to talk to.”

“Greg or Mycroft?”

Sherlock humphs. A second later his mobile begins to buzz again. Sherlock picks it up and slides it on this time, holding it out in front of his face. “Do you think calling a second time will make me want to answer more? Good bye.”

“Sher –“

Sherlock hangs up.

“Sherlock,” John chides.

“If it is so serious, Mycroft can swoop over in a company car.”

“Are you saying you want to see him? Sentiment?”

Sherlock picks up another case file and shoots John a look. “Your humor is forever a mystery to me.”

When the mobile buzzes a third time, Sherlock picks up the mobile and heaves it toward John. “You talk to him.”

“Sher – don’t!” John catches it just before it hits the mantel above him. “Christ, do you want to break your mobile?”

“It would be worth it.”

John answers the mobile and puts it to his ear. “Hi Mycroft.”

“John.” Mycroft sighs. “I assume my brother is still nearby?”

“Yeah, on the couch.”

“And is he busy?”

John purses his lips. “I am going to toe the line here on that one and say 'I do not know.'”

“Politic of you. Do tell him that the family dinner this year is a requirement, even if I have to send some gentlemen to escort him.”

“Mycroft says you have to come to dinner.”

Sherlock scoffs and jumps up from the couch. “If he can catch me.” Then he walks past John and into the kitchen.

John smiles then closes his book and puts it down in his lap. “Anything else?” John says to Mycroft.

Mycroft sighs quietly. “How are you faring, John? Feeling at home again back in the old flat, I trust?”

“Yep, just like old times.”

“Well, certainly not completely ‘like old times,’ John, but that is good to hear.”

John’s brow scrunches. “What do you mean?”

“Surely it has not escaped your notice how Sherlock has changed, John.”

“I…” John glances back into the kitchen. Sherlock stands at the sink, washing a mug. “Yes, he has.”

“John, I never dared to hope that Sherlock's disposition could have improved in the way it has. Certainly he is the same stubborn, irrational, and tactless man he has always been in many regards. Yet…” Mycroft hums once. “Well, you have certainly changed him, haven’t you?”

John stares straight ahead at the empty chair in front of him, sounds of water running in the kitchen still behind him. “I haven’t tried to.”

“I am not saying this is a negative, John. The way he speaks about you is particularly singular and not something I thought him capable of in the past.”

“What? He talks to you about me?”

Mycroft chuckles in his polite way. “John, nearly every time we happen to converse, uncommon as such an occurrence may be, the subject of you does invariably come up. Does this surprise you?”

John’s lip quirks. “I guess not.”

“I know he has been… well, he has been trying for you, John. He is rarely good with the emotions of others, let alone his own, but I know he has been making an effort for you in regards to Dr. Morstan. I do hope it has not been in vain.”

Sherlock appears at John’s side and holds out John's 'Royal Army Medical Corp' mug full of tea. John looks up slowly at Sherlock. “It hasn’t,” John says and takes the mug from Sherlock.

Sherlock raises an eyebrow but does not ask. Instead he turns and walks back to the couch, flopping down almost on top of his case files.

“Remind him about the dinner, John,” Mycroft says quietly then hangs up.

John clicks off the mobile and puts it down on the small table beside the chair. The book he was reading slips off his lap onto the floor but John ignores it. He holds his tea and watches Sherlock as he turns pages in a case file. Sherlock smirks at one page then lifts the sheet for a moment before letting it fall again.

“Sherlock,” John says.

“Hmm?”

“I…”

Sherlock turns and looks at John, case file still in his hands. John stares at Sherlock until Sherlock raises both eyebrows. “Yes, John?”

John lets the tea mug in his hand lower and rest on his thigh. “Thank you.”

Sherlock nods and turns back to his file.

“No,” John insists and Sherlock turns back again with a small frown. “I mean…” John breathes in. “Thank you.”

Sherlock stares for a long minute then smiles a fraction. “Of course, John.”

\-------------------------

Sherlock walks in a circle around the corpse six times before Greg finally sighs and shoots John a look. John shakes his head. Greg clenches his jaw and nods vigorously. John puts his palms up and shrugs. ‘Come on!’ Greg mouths. John only grins.

“Are you two finished?”

John and Greg turn to look at Sherlock. Sherlock stands at the feet of the corpse, just barely a centimeter from the edge of the stage yet still out of the rain falling on the seating. He clicks another few times on his mobile then looks up.

John glances at Greg who sighs again. “Well, what then?”

Sherlock smirks. “Care to take a guess?”

Greg frowns. “If I did, I wouldn’t have called you.”

Sherlock snorts. “John?”

John tilts his head. “No sign of any entry wounds or blunt force trauma. Looks like time of death is about ten hours ago, give or take. Some marks around the neck not sure about strangulation though.”

“No.”

“No?”

“Could do with a bit of choking however.”

“You could?”

Sherlock rolls his eyes. “The color of the face is –“

“Yes, got that, but he doesn’t have anything in his throat so –“

“So, perhaps there is something in his lungs?”

“But there isn’t, we saw that –“

“Ah, but there once was.”

John and Greg shoot each other a look. John takes up the line this time, “Really?”

Sherlock rocks back and forth on his heels. “Oh yes.”

Greg sighs loudly. “Just cut to the chase.”

“Interesting choice of idiom, Lestrade, as chases can often take a good deal of time.”

Greg only stares until Sherlock bounces on his heels and comes around the side of the corpse, leaning down. “Smell that.”

“No.”

“Not from there, perhaps, come down here.”

“Oh no, that’s what I meant.”

“John?”

John flashes Greg a look. Greg shakes his head ‘don’t’ but John kneels down and leans in close. He pulls back sharply. “God!”

“Hmm, yes, classic alcoholic pub smell.”

“And then some.”

John and Sherlock stand up at the same time. Sherlock points down at their victim. “He may be ‘high and dry’ now but that smell is far more than just a spill on the clothes; that is coming from the pores. This man was soaked and, if you must prove on the autopsy table you can, drowned in alcohol.”

“I wish it were me,” Greg mutters.

John snorts a laugh but controls himself. 

“The question is...” Sherlock pulls his mobile out again and snaps a picture of the corpse.

“Oi!” Greg snaps.

“Where he was really killed as it is obviously not here; who would feel the need to murder a divorced, bat mitten playing, dog walker; how the killer administered such a large amount of alcohol with very little signs of struggle; and why the choice of murder weapon was specifically gin and rum alcohol.”

“Don’t care to throw in the ‘what?’” John jokes.

Sherlock hops right over the body and turns John around by his shoulder. “Come, lead.”

“Wait!” Greg shouts after them. “If you have-“

“We shall text!” Sherlock shouts back.

They hurry away into the rain and up the hill from the amphitheater. Sherlock grins and almost bounces as he walks. John has to jog to keep up with Sherlock's long strides.

“So, where to?”

“Cab.”

“You know that’s not a location, right?”

Sherlock stops and smiles at John, his hair starting to slacken with water. “Oh John, perhaps you could do with a little surprise.” 

John grins and runs after Sherlock; All he can think of is case after case, near misses and brilliant realizations and always that wonderful rush he never tires of. 

\------------------------

John sits with his laptop open in front of him on the table. He gazes out the window behind him at the buildings across the street. Snow from yesterday still sticks to some of the windows, collected on the small panes. It makes him think of New Years and violin music.

“Always back here,” John mutters. 

John certainly does not regret moving to a house with Mary, that house was perfect and smelled like spring all the time. Once they were married buying a home had been just what they wanted. Yet for John, 221B must be hooked onto his soul. Since the first time he stepped into this flat it has been the center of his life; with Sherlock, alone, with Mary, and now Sherlock again. It is not exactly a circle but it is coming home. 

“John, tea!” Sherlock shouts from his bedroom.

John rolls his eyes and turns his head around back look in the flat. “You’re closer!”

“I am working!”

“No, you’re not!”

“It is an important case, John.”

“Staring at the pattern of photographs on your floor does not mean you cannot stand up.”

“Yes, it does!”

John chuckles and looks at his computer screen. He clicks chrome and brings up a website he has not been on for years now. 

His eyes shift up, the wall turned to a neutral brown paint though John feels like he can still tell where the bullet holes once were. Sherlock’s couch looks perhaps a bit more battered but the bookshelf has remained tidy from John’s first day back in residence. His black jacket is draped on the arm of the chair in the corner while Sherlock’s long gray coat hangs on the open door. 

The flat does not look like Mary anymore, no creams chairs or Shakespeare but that’s all right; the flat isn’t wholly Sherlock either. Whatever the flat has become, it fits John perfectly. He always wants his feet on these floors, always wants his bed to be here, always wants to call it home.

He logs in to his old blog, clicks the link for ‘new post’ and starts with the title: “Back at 221B.”

“John?” Sherlock calls again, not shouting anymore.

Hands hovering over the keys, John realizes right this second that his life has fallen back into place, back into balance where he needs it to be. John smiles, “Sherlock?”

“Tea? Please, John?”


	3. Sherlock

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _“John, this is a chance I should not have had.” He breathes out slowly and slides his hands forward on the table. “I will not waste it."_
> 
> _John stares at Sherlock for a long moment then leans forward too. "I always liked you because of how different you were, how exciting and brilliant.” He reaches out and touches one of Sherlock’s hands. “Don't be normal for me, Sherlock."_

Eight at night on a Tuesday, John sits on the floor leaning up against Sherlock's chair with his laptop in his lap. Across from him Sherlock sits with boxes of case files surrounding him, the coffee table shoved back against the couch. These files actually belong to Sherlock for once instead of pieces stolen from Scotland Yard. Sherlock decided, in absence of a case, he was going to reorganize his files. John is writing a blog entry about the perils of the lack of crime and Sherlock Holmes. 

Sherlock picks up one empty box and puts it behind him on the coffee table. Two other empty boxes sit on the bigger table and a fourth is happily resting beside John. All the files are on the floor in stacks of varying heights. One stack nearly reaches Sherlock's shoulder and John fears it may tip over and cause a whole new chain of events, ranging from case review or murder lecture. John isn't sure how many of these folders and rubber banded paper stacks are 'unsolved' but there has to be at least one in there. When Sherlock finds it again, John is sure he will hear all about it.

"So, what's the plan?"

"Hmm?"

John waves a hand at the files even though Sherlock isn't looking at him. "What are you going to organize by?"

"Geographical location."

John scoffs but when Sherlock says nothing else he lays his hands flat on the computer keys. "Come on, really? What's wrong with date or name?"

"They were organized by date before."

"Then what's wrong with last name?"

Sherlock finally looks up and cocks his head. He smirks. "Did you really believe me?"

John sighs and frowns. "You know, you're not that good at joking."

Sherlock raises his eyebrows and pulls a file off of the shoulder height stack. He opens it, eyes sliding up and down the page once, then he smiles. He snaps it closed and places it up on the tall table in front of one of the empty boxes. He then proceeds to pick up another file. John watches him, fingers still, and waits. Sherlock goes through five more files - one clipped buddle including what appears to be a costume mask - before John sighs again.

"Okay." Sherlock looks up and John waves a hand at him. "I give up, organized by what?"

"Case type."

"Type? Like murder versus robbery?"

Sherlock points with a file folder. "Wonderful deduction, John."

John frowns, clicks his teeth, then nods. "Yeah, that's very you."

John types another line in his blog, '...for whom filing by murder type is standard practice' and smiles to himself. Suddenly, he hears Sherlock move then the man is crouched next to him. He reaches over John's shoulder and presses the backspace key, deleting the line John just wrote.

"Sherlock!"

Sherlock turns to him. "Mustn't give away all my secrets, John."

He then stands up and drops back down into his semicircle of papers and folders. John watches him and purses his lips. He moves the mouse and clicks 'delete draft.' John puts his laptop aside then scoots forward and opens one file. Sherlock glances up and gives John a questioning look.

John smiles. "I'll help."

––––––––––––––––––––

John walks down the aisle at the grocery store with Sherlock trailing somewhere behind him. He checks back every minute or so to make sure Sherlock hasn’t wandered off or started to analyze some fellow customer. The last time John let Sherlock off on his own in the shop he came back with a slapped cheek and three stolen bottles of peroxide.

“Do we need eggs?” John asks.

Sherlock slides up beside him. “That depends.”

“On what?”

“On why you wish to purchase them.”

John frowns. “To eat.”

“Then yes.”

John tilts his head. “And why was this a question?”

Sherlock frowns back in a mockery of innocence. “Absolutely no reason.”

John stares at Sherlock for twenty seconds. “I’m cleaning the fridge when we get home.”

“You are not.”

“I am.”

“Hmm.” Sherlock pulls out his mobile and taps the screen a few times. “I suppose it shall be a race then.”

“Are you timing us or something?” John asks, pointing at the mobile.

Sherlock picks up some cottage cheese and puts it in John’s basket. “No.” Then he walks around John and turns down the pasta aisle.

“Hey, wait!”

“Are you making dinner?” Sherlock asks as John catches up.

“I can, why?”

“I am hungry.”

John looks at his watch. “It is after four.”

“Dinner then.” Sherlock grabs a box of pasta without looking at it and tosses it backward over his shoulder. John catches it, ziti, and puts it in the basket.

“I think we actually have –“

“We don’t”

“But–“

“Checked.”

John chuckles then jogs up and around Sherlock. “Fine, from your not subtle pasta suggestion, I will make some baked ziti.”

They weave through some more aisles, grabbing sauce and cheese. John knows there are various spices in the flat so he doesn’t need any of those. Sherlock often obtains spices in relation to a case so they have an odd array in the kitchen. 

When they reach the checkout, John’s arm is starting to hurt and the basket is full up. He knows they might need milk but when the basket reaches full, he’s done. Sherlock fidgets beside John as John goes through the process on the self-checkout. Sherlock rocks on his heels then suddenly gasps and scampers away.

“Oi! Sherlock!” John snaps but if he’s only half checked out and he’s not losing thirty minutes of shopping to chase the man. “Would you….” John sighs.

He almost shouts ‘don’t steal anything’ but thinks better of it.

“Excuse me,” a girl pops up half a minute later beside John holding out a circular container of salt, “your boyfriend dropped this… uh, actually,” she chuckles awkwardly, “he threw it from that aisle and didn’t make it.”

John opens his mouth then closes it again. He takes the amazingly undamaged salt. “Yeah, right, thanks.”

Sherlock suddenly appears again behind the girl holding up pepper. He frowns at the girl then hands John the pepper. “We may in fact be out of a pair of essentials.”

John stares at it then looks up at Sherlock. “What did you do?”

“Do?”

“With the salt and pepper? What could you possibly have done?”

“John,” Sherlock makes a ‘tut tut’ noise and gives the girl a knowing look which she returns with a look of confusion. “Don’t worry your dear head about it.”

John’s mouth drops open again and the girl giggles awkwardly. “Okay, um… weird couple.”

“We, we’re… ahhh.” John shakes his head as she turns and hurries away. “Just like old times.”

Sherlock raises an eyebrow but says nothing about the phrase or anything else. John scans the rest of their items then steals Sherlock’s card to pay. In his defense, it is Sherlock’s turn to buy groceries. Once outside of the shop, bags in hand, Sherlock pulls a small box out of his coat and slides it into one of the bags.

“Oh god, what did you…“ John stops when he looks down and sees that the box is in fact nicotine patches. He looks up again in surprise. “Really?”

Sherlock looks away as they walk. “Well.”

John smiles. “Hmm?”

“I felt it time to,” He shrugs, “’get back on the horse,’ to use an overused idiom.”

“And you stole them?”

Sherlock turns to John and raises his eyebrows. “Problem?”

John tries not to smile and fails. “Guess not.”

Sherlock nods and walks ahead of John, stopping at the corner. John looks down at the bag again and grins. Maybe he’ll let Sherlock off and not clean the fridge until tomorrow.

––––––––––––––––––––

“If you’re going to sit there and stare out the window, I can have lunch at the pub with my favorite beers instead.”

John’s head snaps around. “What?”

Harry grins and points at him with her sandwich. “You are so predictable.”

John frowns. “I’m paying attention.”

“What was I talking about?”

“Women.”

“Lucky guess but you have to admit,” she points at the window and wags her finger.

John gives her a wry smile. “Sorry, all that sun. Draws the eye,”

“Don’t use your Watson charm on me; I invented it.”

“That is debatable.”

“Who’s older?”

John rolls his eyes. “In maturity?”

“Doesn’t that answer your own question?”

“Ah ha.”

Harry takes a bite of her sandwich. “And I win.”

John smiles and takes a gulp of his Coke. Harry puts her sandwich back on her plate, picks up her water, and leans back against her chair.

“So!” She sucks water through the straw very slowly.

John purses his lips. “Am I supposed to fill in the rest of the sentence now?”

Harry puts her glass down. “Back at the old place?”

“Uh huh.”

“With the born again.”

“Hilarious.”

“I am.” She cocks her head. “So you are?”

“Yes.” John flings up his hands. “Why is everyone so hung up on this?”

Harry raises both eyebrows. “Everyone?”

“Look, it just makes sense!” John picks up a crisp and makes a circle in the air. “We were flat mates before, worked out well and I wanted out of the house.”

“Your house.”

“It was mine and Mary’s house, not just mine.”

Harry nods. “Well, I do get you there. After Clara and I, well, after that neither of us wanted to be in the old place.”

John raises his eyebrows and nods back. “See.”

“But you don’t feel you’re…” Harry rocks her head from side to side then shrugs. “Betraying Mary?”

“How’s that?”

Harry shrugs again. “Well, does seem like you’re just going right back to where you were before Mary.”

“It’s not like that.”

“It’s not?”

John sighs and crosses his arms. “No, it’s…” He chews in the inside of his lip then clicks his tongue. “Sherlock is my best friend and he’s been there for me.” John chuckles. “I’m sure much to everyone’s surprise.”

Harry snorts and nods. “Uh, yeah.”

John rolls his eyes. 

“Well, you said it!” Harry insists.

“Mary, she…” John clears his throat and half looks at the wall while still looking at Harry. “She asked Sherlock to watch after me, to… take care of me when she was gone and he has. He actually has. I mean, not how a lot of people would go about it but, well, it’s better that way.”

“So,” Harry picks up her water again. “So, you’re saying you’re okay?”

John grins. “Surprise.” Harry chuckles and John picks up another crisp. “Mary would be quite proud.”

––––––––––––––––––––

“You know, now you can’t say I’ve never asked you to come to the pub.”

Sherlock rolls his eyes. “I never complained before.”

“Uh huh.”

“Quote me then, John, I would be pleased to have you illuminate me.”

John shakes his head. “Come on.”

Sherlock purses his lips. “Fine. I will be sure not to bemoan you on this score from here on.”

John takes a drink from his bottle. “That’s all I ask.”

Sherlock smirks slightly and sips his gin and tonic. Normally one might say that a former drug addict should also be avoiding alcohol but Sherlock tends to be a special case. Plus, John has Mycroft on speed dial.

“John, it is…” Sherlock slides his glass back and forth between his hands. “Mary’s birthday is Friday.”

John nods. “Yes, it is.”

“I thought perhaps you had a desire to,” Sherlock slides the glass again, “mark the occasion.”

“Actually, I’m having dinner with Diane and Lacy.”

“Ah.” Sherlock picks up the glass and swirls the ice and liquid around. “Good.”

“Did you…” John narrows his eyes at Sherlock, “want to come?”

Sherlock scoffs loudly. 

“Yeah, I thought not.”

Sherlock takes another sip of his drink. “I felt perhaps you would have a need for such sentiment.”

John smiles. “Well, you and I can watch the Kenneth Branagh _Hamlet_.”

Sherlock frowns. “I do hope you are…” John chuckles and grins so Sherlock trails off. He sighs. “Amusing, John.”

“I thought so.” John drinks another gulp of his beer and sighs contentedly. “Do you know how odd you look here?”

“Odd?”

“Yeah.”

“Here?”

“Yeah, in a pub.”

Sherlock gives John an incredulous look. “This is not the first one I have been in.”

“You sure?” John tilts his head. “Do you have proof of that?”

Sherlock smiles. “You are enjoying yourself.”

John laughs. “Well, maybe you are better company off a case than you think, Sherlock.”

“I’m really not.”

Tipping up his bottle, John drinks down the rest of it. He puts it back on the counter and pushes it in toward the bar tender’s side. He then plants an elbow on the bar top and rest his head on it, face toward Sherlock. He smiles. “To me you are.”

Sherlock’s lip twitches and he glances down at his drink. “I see.”

“Well, you certainly try to poison me less when we are off the case.”

Sherlock grins and looks up again. “It was an important scientific test, John.”

“Which made me hallucinate a glowing, red eyed dog and then hide in a cage.”

“I saved you.”

John makes a ‘tch’ noise then sits up again. “Don’t think it counts when you were the one that put me in the situation in the first place.”

“Doesn’t it?”

“No.”

“Hmm.” Sherlock lifts his drink again and finishes the glass in one large gulp. He hisses then puts the glass down, sliding it up beside John’s bottle.

John looks down at the bar. He imagines Mary sitting on his other side, her laughing, hand on his arm, ‘What? Can’t get saved now and then by your knight?’ a beer in her hand. ‘Very Arthurian Legend. I’m jealous, when have you white knighted me?’ John smiles to himself and looks over at Sherlock again. Sherlock has his mobile in his hand but once he notices John looking, he places it on the bar top.

“John?”

“Sherlock?”

“John, I thought –“

Suddenly Sherlock’s phone buzzes loudly on the wooden bar. John jolts with surprise and Sherlock cocks his head. The number is blocked. 

Sherlock raises an eyebrow and clicks ‘answer’ on speaker phone. However, he says nothing.

“He… hello?” The voice is male and, from John’s limited deductive process, sounds to be early twenties.

“Yes?”

“Is this Sherlock Holmes?”

“Who has been murdered?”

“How did you –“

“What else would you like to know I can hear in your voice or shall you get to the point?”

The man gasps and stutters. “My - my brother. The police say it’s a suicide but... I… can you help?”

Sherlock glances at John. John purses his lips. Sherlock smiles slowly. “Text me the address.” Then he hangs up and grabs the mobile off the bar top. “It would appear we are employed again, John.”

John turns and holds up his hand for the bar tender. “Cheque?” 

––––––––––––––––––––

John writes the remaining notes about the new drugs for Mr. Williams. He is starting to run out of space what with the dosage notes and stipulations about Ted’s allergies. One would think that hospitals would realize how much information needs to be put on their own forms. Luckily John has become a master of the 'diminishing size' writing style, patent pending. To John’s left the sound of grinding grows louder.

Someone taps at John’s door and John looks up to see Aziz poking his head in. “Hello, hello.” He strides half way across the room holding up a file. “I have a consult for…” He stops walking then purses his lips. “Um, why is there someone on your floor grinding up… is that oxycodone?”

“Among other things,” Sherlock says giving Aziz his one of his big, crazy smiles and holds up the mortar and pestle. “I have included hydrocodone and Codine as well.”

“He’s not going to snort it; I made sure,” John says and holds out his hand for the file.

Aziz steps forward and gives John the file. “Ummm… it’s a consult. Who are you again?” Aziz asks Sherlock.

“Sherlock, Aziz; Aziz, Sherlock,” John says with accompanying hand motions.

Aziz’s eyebrows rise slowly. “Oh, oh, that makes far more sense.”

Sherlock looks up again. He puts the pestle down and leans back against John’s one bookcase. He stares at Aziz, eyes moving up and down. Then he chuckles.

“What are you –“

“No, don’t.” John holds up a hand to Aziz then he looks at Sherlock and points with his other hand. “Don’t.”

Sherlock purses his lips and breathes out slowly. 

“What do you mean –“

“Seriously,” John cuts Aziz off again, “believe me.”

Sherlock chuckles again and picks up the pestle. “No need to stifle, John. I am sure Aziz will invite you on a salon trip at some point.”

Aziz’s mouth drops open and John sighs. “What did I say?”

Sherlock shrugs. “I was simply speculating.”

“No, you weren’t.”

“Wait a minute.” Aziz puts his hands on his hips. “Did you… have… how…” He turns to John. “This is the one that is always texting you and that you moved back in with?”

John looks up from under his eyebrows and makes a check mark in Mr. Williams’ file before closing it. He leans back in his chair. “I’ll take a look at the file, Aziz, okay?”

Aziz chews his lip for a moment then nods. “Right.” His eyes tick to Sherlock again who is now pouring the white powder mixture into a plastic container. “Pleasure to have met you.”

Sherlock responds by snapping the top onto the container. “Enjoy your next foot massage.”

Aziz’s lip quirks up. “I will.”

When the door closes, John pushes his chair back from his desk and swivels it around. “Did you have to?”

Sherlock tips forward onto his knees then bounces up to standing. He tilts his head and gives John a mock offended look. “Now, John…”

John smiles and waves his hand at Sherlock. “You really need to get a case.”

Sherlock groans. “I know.” He picks up the container, mortar and pestle and sets them on one of John’s patient chairs. “I can only perform so many experiments before the brain begins to starve for fresh action.”

“It has only been two days.”

“Three.”

“Just because you solved a case in the morning does not mean –“

“It counts.”

John sighs. “Are you going to bother me all day?”

“Do you have surgery scheduled?”

“No.”

“Then yes.”

John blinks slowly and stares at Sherlock. Sherlock smiles and unbuttons his jacket. He comes around John’s desk and sits in the vacant patient chair. He leans forward and puts his elbows on his knees, hands palm together. John puts his hands flat on the file from Aziz and does not open it yet. Sherlock tilts his head as he looks at John.

“New shampoo.”

John clicks is tongue. “You can see that in the bathroom.”

“Had a dream about an old case last night.”

“You just took a shot in the dark there.”

“Pain in your right heel, twisted your ankle a bit on our last marvelous chase.”

John crosses his arms. “Are we really doing this?”

“Hmmmm.” Sherlock sits up suddenly and frowns. “Mycroft called you?”

John clears his throat and looks away at his bookcases.

Sherlock grunts. "And just what did my brother feel the need to bother you with?"

John shrugs. "Say hello."

"No."

John looks back. "All right, he called about our last case. He saw you get punched by the one man we questioned on his CCTV."

“Hmm.”

“Hmm,” John repeats.

“New shirt, washed and ironed first.”

John chuckles. “You’re not trying very hard today.”

“New pants.”

“Sherlock!”

Sherlock grins and chuckles.

“You know what, all right.” John scoots forward on his chair and sets his elbows on his desk, fisting his hands together. “Two can play this game.”

Sherlock raises his eyebrows and taps his fingertips. “I am all ears.”

“You didn’t comb your hair today.”

Sherlock’s eyes narrow. “And what makes you believe I ever do?”

John snorts. “Well, for one you own a comb.”

“And why do you believe I neglected to comb my coif today?”

John points at Sherlock’s head. “There is a big curl in the back, you might not even notice it, but when you don’t comb your hair it is always puffed up higher. I suspect because of how you sleep on it.”

Sherlock stares at John and his one hand curls into a loose fist. John knows Sherlock wants to reach up and touch his hair, see what John means but he keeps his hands in place. He sets his teeth together and breathes in. “I see.”

John grins. “Looks like you rub off, eh?”

Sherlock smirks briefly and drops his hands. “All the better for you.”

John leans back in his chair and nods. He still smiles and focuses on that one curl, always popping up and causing Sherlock to smooth his hand over it without noticing. John has watched him do it on more than one occasion. John supposes curly hair must have that problem, rouge curls twisting the wrong way and trying to bring back the 80s if not tamed. Sherlock’s hair, on most occasions, holds the gold for ‘perfect curls.’ John shifts his focus back to Sherlock’s face and sees Sherlock watching him.

Sherlock runs one hand through his hair, sweeping curls up and down, then leans back in the chair. John breathes in slowly, taps his nails on the arm of his chair, and keeps the eye contact. Sherlock smiles.

––––––––––––––––––––

"You know I should be reporting this?" Sally says as John and Sherlock stand on one side of the caution tape, police cars and a suspect caught on the other.

"Why? Who says we were involved, dear Sally?" Sherlock bites back.

She glances back once at the house that is the crime scene. "I'm sure I could find something."

Sherlock raises both eyebrows. "I wish you luck."

"You back with him them?" Sally says to John with a nod toward Sherlock. "Couldn't stay away?"

John clears his throat. "I'm never bored."

She scoffs and crosses her arms. "Oh I bet." She watches them a minute then frowns at John. "You two actually shagging it up this time? 

"Oi!" John snaps. 

"I don't see how else you'd come running back after what he did," Sally continues.

"That's not your business, even if I was –"

"So you're not?"

John takes a step forward. "If you think –"

Sherlock grabs John's arm. "Wouldn't want to get yourself arrested again, John, regardless of due cause."

Sally raises an eyebrow. "Hit too close to home, freak? I can't imagine what you might have said to turn that right around." She turns back to John. "I do think you could do better."

John growls. "Never said I was doing him at all, so you can –"

"Oh?" She cuts in. "Don't know if that's better or worse then." She looks at Sherlock. "Get away from my crime scene before I find a way to bring up recent history." 

She grabs a radio off the top of the police car beside her then marches toward the house. The minute she turns away so does Sherlock, moving so quickly John needs to run to catch up.

"Sherlock, can you – hold on, you're – would you just –" John grabs Sherlock's arm just as he reaches the street, other arm waving for a taxi. "Would you wait a second?"

"Our job is done. Back to Baker Street."

"Are you –"

"Here," Sherlock cuts John off as a taxi pulls up. He opens the door and John follows after.

Sherlock says nothing on the ride back. John notices how Sherlock has yet to look at him. 

When they reach Baker Street, Sherlock pays the cabbie, giving an inflated tip so he clearly does not have to ask for change, and then climbs out of the cab. John follows him inside and up the stairs, still silent.

"Sherlock." John grabs Sherlock's arm before he gets more than two steps in the flat door. "Stop." Sherlock finally looks at John and his face is blank. "Are you... look, Sally has always been like that and after, well… you know, it's still rocky with Scotland Yard."

"I am used to insults, John; it is not a new occurrence that requires coddling." He pulls his arm out of John's grasp.

"You're..." John lets his arm fall to his side. "You're angry with me."

Sherlock breathes through his nose sharply. "I simply do not appreciate intrusions upon my work; it would have been better if Scotland Yard had not seen us or intruded so early."

John shakes his head. "No, no that's not it."

Sherlock frowns and raises his eyebrows. "What else would it be?"

"Me, you're upset with me." John tilts his head. "With... with what Sally said about..." Sherlock looks away. "Sherlock, you know Sally just wants to press your buttons, just to get back at you."

Sherlock turns sharply. "My buttons or yours?"

"Mine?"

"John, you –" Sherlock breathes in slowly and shakes his head slightly.

A light bulb that was out clicks back on. "Sherlock, we're not –"

"Did I say that?"

"No, but... how you feel, felt, how you..." John sighs. "I wasn't trying to make it seem like I never –"

“My whole existence is not now pining after you, John,” Sherlock interrupts harshly.

John swallows slowly. “I didn’t say that.”

Sherlock shakes his head. “The most important thing to me is the work.”

“I am well aware!”

“As much as," Sherlock frowns, stares down at the floor then back up at John. "As much as you learn from me, John, I have taken bits from you as well.” John opens his mouth in surprise but Sherlock pushes on before John can speak. “You said, ‘no more,’ so I took that from you and I did as I have observed from so many; I pushed those feelings aside.” Sherlock mutters, “Their presence is distracting and frustrating regardless.”

John smiles a little but doesn’t comment on that ever present piece of Sherlock that no time or love can truly erase. 

Then Sherlock looks at John again. “I removed them.”

John tilts his head, “Really?”

Sherlock’s eyes flick away briefly then back to John. He sighs and his mouth twitches. “As much as was possible.”

“And now?”

Sherlock stares at John for a long minute and John feels his pulse spike. Then Sherlock unbuttons the top button of his coat. "And now this conversation is ridiculous and unnecessary." He takes off his coat and hangs it up by the door. "We have better things to be doing."

"Like what?" John waves a hand toward the door. "We just solved the case!"

Sherlock presses his lips together tightly then he turns and walks away toward the kitchen.

"Sherlock," John tries to grab Sherlock's arm but he walks too fast. "Sherlock, please, don't walk away."

Sherlock turns quickly at the door to the kitchen. "There is nothing more to discuss, John."

"Wait, just wait."

Sherlock stands still and waits. John opens his mouth – maybe he actually expected Sherlock to keep storming off because he suddenly can't think of any right thing to say. Sherlock shifts his weight forward. "What, John?"

"I'm sorry," John says quietly.

Sherlock turns on his heels, "You have no reason to apologize," then walks through the kitchen and back into his room.

John steps forward and puts a hand on the kitchen door way. He stares at the back closed door and breathes slowly in and out for a few minutes. His nails dig into the wood then John pushes off and turns back around. Sinking into his old chair by the fire place, John leans forward slightly and rests his forehead on his hand.

––––––––––––––––––––

John knocks on the door to the morgue as he opens it. “Hello?”

“Yes?” Molly steps into view then smiles. “Oh! Hello, John.”

John smiles back and walks inside, letting the door swing closed behind him. “Hi, Molly, how are you?”

Molly shrugs. “Oh, all right, slow day.” Then her face changes. “Are you here for a case? I don’t have any new…”

John waves a hand. “No, no case.”

“Oh, okay.” Molly tilts her head. “Not looking for Greg are you?”

John laughs. “No, Molly, I am here to see you.”

Molly blushes briefly and nods. “Well, that’s just fine. Do you mind if we talk while I work? I have one body I need to prep for shipping.”

John smiles wryly. “Wouldn’t be my first time talking over a dead body.”

Molly raises her eyebrows. “No, certainly not.”

They walk back into a rear section of the morgue where Molly’s body lies on a table. It appears that she’d just taken it out of its drawer. She picks up the clip board on the table beside it and writes the time. 

Then she puts it down, picks up a box of gloves, and looks up at John again. “So, what’s up?”

“I wanted to ask you…” John taps his fingers on the metal table then drops his hand. “To ask you about the three years Sherlock was gone.”

Molly stops just as she finishes putting on her second glove. She stares at John then rests her hands on the table as well. “Oh?”

“I’ve been thinking about it lately,” John continues. “I know you helped him at the beginning, with being ‘dead.’ He told me that himself. But what I can’t help keep thinking about is how he must have been in contact with someone here while he was gone.” He pauses and watches her face. “How that person must have been you.”

Molly picks up the protective glasses on her prep table and puts them on. She sighs, “What do you want to know?”

John bites his lip. “I don’t know.”

Molly opens her mouth then closes it and huffs. “I, uh, how can I…”

“No, I mean…” John taps the table again then paces a few steps to the right. “He told me about searching out leads and others involved in the network, all that but…” John looks straight at Molly. “It was three years. When he came back he was…”

“John.” Molly steps backward once and takes the glasses off again. “He didn’t contact me very often. I tried to get him to. He always… He was vague about where he was, what was going on but…” She glances away, bites her lip then looks back. “He always asked about you.”

John breathes in slowly. “Yeah.”

“No, he…” Molly pats her hands together awkwardly. “He only asked about you.”

“What do you…”

“When he e-mailed me or once in a while called it was just you he wanted to know about. He didn’t need my help in hiding or anything like that. Near the end he sent me files and information to give to Greg to clear his name but….” She drops her hands to her sides. “He only asked questions about you. He…” She laughs in a short breath. “He would send me these e-mails, just one word half the time, ‘update’ or ‘status’ and I just knew he always meant you.”

John stares at her and wonders why any of this really feels like a surprise.

“I suppose I was his only line back to England; though his brother, Mycroft, knew. He’s the one who eventually came to see me so that I would keep him updated. But… every time I would ask him to come back, told him it was enough, especially after he was shot, he would…”

“Wait, shot? When did he get shot?”

“Oh!” Molly puts a hand to her mouth then drops it and clears her throat. “He didn’t tell you?”

John clenches his teeth. “No.”

“Oh… well, um, it was a long time ago now. It was in France; I think, a year or year and half before he came back.”

John frowns. “I see.”

Molly clears her throat again, touches the pen on top of her clip board. “The point is, John, the reason he kept going wasn’t just to solve the crimes. Half of it was to protect you; at least that’s what I could tell from everything he said.”

John nods. “I know, the threat to all of us.”

Molly gives him a look but doesn’t press it. “I think in those three years he realized how much you had meant to him and how much you’d changed his life. With you gone then…”

John huffs quietly. “Oh, I know.”

Molly smiles. “If you want to ask me why did he change or why didn’t he…” Molly shrugs. “I don’t know. Only he does.”

John shakes his head and scrubs a hand over his eyes. “I don’t know, Molly. I’m not sure what I even really wanted to ask you.”

She nods and watches him. John fists his hands once then relaxes them. He glances at the body between them, a fifty something man, thinning hair and sagging skin, a tan line where a ring once lived on his finger. John looks up at Molly again.

“You saw both sides.” He tilts his head. “You’re the only one.”

Molly shifts her weight between her feet. “I suppose.” She shrugs again. “I didn’t really see it that way at the time. I guess I was…” She chuckles. “I worried about him. He always seems better with you and then when you and Mary got together there...” Molly suddenly clamps her mouth shut and swallows. “I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to be…”

John shakes his head. “It’s fine, Molly, it’s been a year now.” John closes his eyes – Mary’s straight blond hair compared with Sherlock’s dark curls flash behind his eyes – then opens them again and smiles at Molly. 

She clears her throat. “I… well, I didn’t tell him about Mary and maybe I should have but… I don’t know; it’s different looking back.”

John chuckles. “Yeah, it always is.” 

"He always missed you, John, even if he didn't really say it,” Molly blurts out suddenly. John blinks and opens his mouth but Molly steps forward again up to the table. “Whenever he asked about you or…” She breathes in slowly. “He always missed you and that was real.”

They stand in silence for a minute. John looks over Molly’s head at the wall. He remembers his birthday that one time right after, when he had to flee to the back of the pub and Molly found him. She asked him then what he would say to Sherlock if he could; how John said he would tell Sherlock how he felt. Thinking about that now the conversation is so much different. John shifts his gaze down to Molly and sees her looking back.

John turns away then stops and smiles at her. “Thank you, Molly.”

––––––––––––––––––––

Sherlock paces back and forth across the living room floor, three strides each way. He taps his fingertips together but says nothing as he moves. Every two minutes, approximately, Sherlock stops and stares at his wall of photos and papers tapped up all over the mirror above the fireplace. The photos show off the many positions of two murder victims, time of death determined to be exactly the same though the modes seemingly unrelated. The catch? They victims are twins.

“Twins…” Sherlock keeps muttering. “Has to be something…” He starts to pace again before another two minutes pass and stops once more. “Twins…”

John is trying very hard to ignore all of this and finish a report of his own for the hospital but it is pretty much impossible.

“Sherlock,” John says finally, “why don’t you sit down and do this?”

“Why?”

“Because you are making a valley in the carpet.”

Sherlock scoffs. “We can buy another.”

“But we shouldn’t need to.”

Sherlock only waves a hand in dismissal.

“You know it’s after ten; you can always pick this up again tomorrow.” John types another sentence. “You only got this one this morning.”

“I plan on finishing it today.”

John looks up from his laptop. “Is it a race?”

“Exact same time of death!” Sherlock snaps and taps a finger loudly on one photograph. “Both appear to be accidental. Falling in the shower, which anyone should know is a classic cover up murder, and then falling down the stairs. Both involving falling. Coincidence?”

“No?”

“No.”

“But...” John saves his document on his laptop then looks up at Sherlock. “But there were no signs of murder.”

Sherlock frowns. “There has to be.” He starts to pull down all the photos from the mirror. “I have to see it.”

“We went to the morgue. There was –“

“Nothing we saw then; does not mean there was nothing there.”

John purses his lips. “You know, it is possible that –“

“No.” Sherlock strides over to the couch and jumps up onto the cushions beside John.

The couch bounces and John’s laptop crashes to the floor. “Sherlock!”

“I know,” Sherlock tapes a photo to the wall, “it has to be,” tapes another, “here!”

“Damn it, Sherlock.” John picks up his laptop examining the edges. “Did you have to?”

Sherlock looks down at John as he tapes more photos and shakes his head. “It will be fine.”

“It doesn’t need to hit the floor, you know.”

“I’ve dropped it far worse than that.”

“Yeah, but – wait, you have?”

Sherlock waves his hand at the finished wall and spreads his legs out between two cushions. “There has to be something. Something I’ve missed.”

John closes his laptop and puts it on the table. He sighs and looks up at the wall now covered with photos. “Well, what then?”

“Something.”

“You don’t even have a murder suspect.”

Sherlock makes a low noise much like a groan and a growl combined. He tilts his head and bounces between cushions as he peers closely at crime scene photos. John bounces as well with the motion of the couch. He rubs a hand over his eyes then shifts around to his knees to look at the wall. 

“Didn’t you think maybe it could be the boyfriend?”

“Which one?”

John points. “His, only the brother had a boyfriend, not the sister, remember?”

Sherlock snorts. “Oh, she certainly had a boyfriend as well. Toothbrush in the cabinet, the hair in the sink, different beer in the fridge.”

John sighs. “Maybe she had a guest. There were no pictures of her with a boyfriend.”

Sherlock tilts his head. “True. Only photos of her with her brother’s boy-“

Sherlock stops speaking abruptly then starts to laugh. John stares up at Sherlock until the other looks down at him.

“What?”

Sherlock grins. “Our boyfriend was double dipping.”

John stares for a minute then it clicks. “He was seeing both of them?”

“Oh, he was seeing the sister in secret but, yes, both.” Sherlock grins then looks at the photos again. “Interesting experiment to sleep with twins. Could make a study on that.”

John scoffs. “Are you going to undertake this?”

“You could be my test subject, John.”

John scoffs as well. “I’ll pass.”

“The boyfriend…” Sherlock taps a photo of a picture frame from one flat. “Boyfriend…”

Sherlock stares and crosses his arms. John watches him but, when after five minutes Sherlock has not moved again, he turns and sits back down. John sighs and picks up his laptop.

An hour later, Sherlock suddenly jumps up into the air then crashes back down onto the couch so John’s laptop hits the floor again.

“No, Sherlock!”

“John, it is simple!” Sherlock plops down into sitting beside John and grips John’s shoulders. “So simple!”

John puts a hand on Sherlock’s chest so Sherlock doesn’t actually fall on him. “So simple what?”

“Diabetic!”

“I… what?”

“See!” Sherlock pulls away and points at a photo, food maybe, but moves so fast again John cannot see. “In the food!”

“But they both fell, it’s not –“

Sherlock chuckles and taps John’s chest with a finger. “Oh no, no, convenient yes, but not the real cause.”

John grabs Sherlock’s hand to try and make him still. “But why –“

“Ha!” Sherlock laughs more, squeezes John’s hand, then jumps up again. He pulls down a photo and pushes it almost onto John’s face. “A ring!”

“Yes, I see, jewelry, what –“

“They both proposed!”

“What?”

Sherlock keeps laughing. “What a ridiculous drama!” He scoffs and suddenly stops laughing. “Quite boring. Somehow, our twins propose to the same man, even with our sister knowing the problem there, and our boyfriend needs a way out! His medication in their food.”

“At the same time?”

Sherlock points across the room. “The dinner receipt, found on the table by the door of our brother. The three of them went out together. When the twins get home...” Sherlock claps his hands.

“I…” John grins. “That can’t…”

Sherlock holds up a finger. “You saw the bodies, John. The wounds from falling would have coincided perfectly with the final effects of the diabetes drugs so the true cause of death could be over looked by the obvious head wounds. But in reality…”

“No…” John grins again. “That's amazing!”

Sherlock whips out his mobile, whirls around and lies down with his head on John’s thigh. John holds his arms up out of the way as Sherlock texts what must be Lestrade. Then Sherlock drops his mobile on his chest and lets his arms fall.

“Solved.”

John chuckles, checks his watch, then rubs a hand over his eyes. “And all before midnight, I say that counts, well done.” He scratches his head. “Plus mostly through photos. That going to be a new strategy of yours?”

He looks down at Sherlock but sees the man now solidly asleep, head to the side and arms slack on his chest. 

“Ah.” John smiles. “That didn’t take long.”

For a moment, John considers standing up and just letting Sherlock fall onto the couch. He doubts Sherlock would wake up if he did. Instead John slouches more into the cushions. He manages to grab the TV remote off the top of the bookshelf, turns on a Graham Norton, then rests his other hand on Sherlock’s arm over his chest.

––––––––––––––––––––

“Sherlock, I know you like to play this game when you are in a particularly vexing hole between cases.”

“Hmm?”

“But Cluedo really doesn’t work with only two people.”

Sherlock looks up at John across the table. “That is why we have the house rules to improve it.”

John holds up a finger. “Those don’t work either.”

“Of course they do.”

“No, no they don’t.” John points the cards. “You can’t just leave out clues.”

“That makes the game more of a challenge.”

John shakes his head. “No, no, it turns the game into…”

“A case?”

“It’s a game!”

Sherlock smirks and rolls the dice. “Three cards each and the wilds and switching of the cards –“

“And no writing down,” John groans.

“Makes,” Sherlock insists and raises his eyebrows, “makes the game actually have a bit of a semblance of reality.”

“You want Cludeo to have reality?”

Sherlock drops the dice and moves his piece into the ballroom. He picks up the dice and rolls again. He cocks his head then picks up the lead pipe.

“No, no.” John takes it out of Sherlock’s fingers. “You rolled a four and by your rules, you have to be able to reach the room of the weapon in that amount, counting the room itself, to use the weapon.”

“I can, right here.” Sherlock points at the board.

“Since when can you go through walls?”

Sherlock tilts his head. “Do you want this game to have reality, John?”

John drops the lead pipe in the ballroom. Then he leans back in his chair and folds his arms. “Touché.”

Sherlock nods and taps the top of his piece. “Myself.”

“Colonel Mustard.”

“Yes.” Sherlock taps the board. “Ballroom and lead pipe. John?”

“You already know the answer.” John holds up his cards. “You know what cards I have.”

“I do not. We switched two turns ago.”

John puts his cards down. “Two turns in which you saw your own cards and got one card from me. Don’t pretend you haven’t found a way to count cards in this game.”

Sherlock frowns. “I do not count cards, John. If I did, why would we bother to play?”

“I ask myself that every time.”

Sherlock sighs. “Well?”

John pulls the lead pipe card from his hand and holds it up for Sherlock to see. “There.”

Sherlock stares at the card, picks up his own then puts them down again. “I know what happened.”

“Not the victim this time?”

“That was a special case.”

John scoffs. “It was the same game, Sherlock.”

“We used the wrong rules then.”

“They were the rules of the game!”

Sherlock sits up straight and folds his hands. “Do you wish to know the who, what, where?”

John sits up and snatches the ‘confidential’ folder from the middle of the board. “Sure.”

“John!” Sherlock tries to get the little folder out of John’s hands but he scoots his chair back from the table so Sherlock cannot reach.

“So.” John pulls out the cards. “Were you thinking it was, Miss –“

“Scarlet with the rope –“

“In the kitchen?”

Sherlock smiles. 

John flicks the cards together and nods. “Well, well.” John tosses the cards down. “Took a whole ten turns that time!”

Sherlock frowns. “I’ve done it in five.”

John frowns back. “Wasn’t that the time when you decided there had been no murder?”

Sherlock nods. “And you quite appreciated my explanation, if I recall?”

John smiles. “I did.” He points at the board. “Please tell me we don’t have to play again?”

“Are you not enjoying it?”

John purses his lips and forces himself not to smile more. “Well…” Sherlock tilts his head down and gives John his ‘just give in’ look. John breaks and smiles. “Oh, all right. It is only because you are such an idiot.”

“Hmm.” Sherlock gathers up the pieces. “Thank you, John.” Then he begins to set the markers back on the appropriate people.

John sits up then reaches over and scoops the weapons out of Sherlock’s palm.

“Wait.” Sherlock grips John’s hand just as it is about to leave his.

John stares at Sherlock and feels how warm Sherlock’s hand is. In his head Sherlock’s hand is always cold. He relaxes his fingers against Sherlock’s palm, the little bits of metal still barely in his grasp.

“What?”

Sherlock stares down at their hands for two beats then lets go and pulls his hand back. John lets the game pieces fall back onto the board then cocks his head at Sherlock.

Sherlock shakes his head. “Nothing. Perhaps we should find something more productive to do.”

"What do you -"

Sherlock stands up and walks away into the kitchen. 

“Experiment?” John calls after him.

“I have a pair of lungs.”

John puts a finger to his lips but finds himself smiling. He looks down at his hand then touches his fingertips, pad to pad. He remembers once Mary said something about touch, about holding hands but it won’t come back to him. John glances over at the kitchen, hears the sound of the refrigerator opening and Sherlock rooting around. Standing up, John starts to put the game back into the box.

––––––––––––––––––––

John and Sherlock race up the stairs, twisting around at each floor and losing just a bit more ground each time.

“How is she so fast?” John barks.

“Come on, John,” Sherlock shouts back.

They can still just see the hands of Elaine, their suspect – she’s guilty, they know it – on the railings but she is three floors above them now. Maybe it is because she is small or just very fit but she is out stretching them at each turn.

John groans as he runs. "We couldn't have taken the lift?"

“Come on!” Sherlock gasps. “Almost at the roof.”

They hear the heavy door bang above them as Elaine crashes through but they have finally caught up a bit, only two floors behind and a minute later they are out on the roof too. Two meters across the roof, Sherlock skids to a stop so John nearly runs into him.

“What? Is she…” Then John looks around Sherlock.

Elaine stands on the tall edge of the roof. In her hands and hooked with a strap to her back is a small, red hang glider. 

John stares. “No...”

She grins and winks at them. “Ta, boys.” Then she jumps off the edge.

Sherlock and John spring to life again and run forward. They hit the edge at the same time and look over. Elaine sails slowly over the buildings of London, curving with the wind like some large bird.

“She just escaped on a hang glider.”

Sherlock sighs. “She planned this.”

John points into the air. “She escaped on a hang glider!”

“She knew we’d learned about her next theft and planned a different escape.”

“She actually flew away!” John shouts. “What is this, _Ocean’s 13_?”

Sherlock abruptly puts a hand over John's mouth. “Your pop culture references are always a pleasure, John, but perhaps the shouting could diminish?” Then Sherlock pulls his hand back.

John stares slack jawed for a minute then closes his mouth with a click. He sighs and leans his forearms on the high edge of the roof. Sherlock mirrors him and tilts his head, eyes still following the small figure in the distance.

“And I thought the secret government lab was into the extreme of popular fiction,” John mutters.

Sherlock laughs quietly. “You’ll have to make a blog entry about that.”

“Oh, I will. ‘Comparisons between popular crime novel fantasy and real life cases.’ Better yet, I’ll publish an essay.”

Sherlock laughs again then looks up at the sky. John looks up too and sees a surprising number of stars for being in the heart of London. Maybe because they are higher up the light pollution is less but that seems a bit like fake science.

“Stars,” John whispers out loud.

“Hmm.” Sherlock turns and looks at John. “There always are.”

John peers at Sherlock out of the corner of his eye. “From the man who bemoans the solar system.” 

Sherlock only rolls his eyes. John smirks and looks back up at the stars. He has seen stars in many places. He’s not very proficient when it comes to constellations so it always seems that the stars are the same. If he’s in an Italian field or a London roof top, the blanket above him looks no different, except perhaps in the number.

“I saw you when you were in Scotland.”

John jerks his head around toward Sherlock again. “What?”

“When I was gone.” Sherlock still looks up at the sky. “I saw you in Scotland.”

John stares and all he can say is, “I went with Mary.”

“I didn’t know that at the time.” Sherlock looks down from the stars to John. “I only saw you.”

John remembers snow, Mary running down the street and skidding on the ice. He remembers a snow ball down his back and beers in the pub; Mary laughing when he managed to spill down his shirt and trousers. He remembers Mary finding a book store and keeping them there for an hour, leaving with a new Shakespeare critique. 

He remembers looking down the street, standing alone, and for one second seeing a tall man in a dark gray coat.

“It was only a moment but…” Sherlock’s eyes circle around John’s face. “Outside a generic pub, two day old snow.”

“Yes.”

“You looked…” Sherlock pauses and smiles. “I think you looked happy.” 

“I was.”

Sherlock nods and threads his fingers together, lips pursed and eyes contemplating the brick.

John doesn’t ask about fate, about how that moment could have been real. He asks, “Why did you think of that?”

Sherlock drums his hand slowly on the roof edge, John’s hand right beside. “I looked at the stars that night too.”

John chuckles quietly. “There are stars most nights.”

“But how often does one look?”

John stands up straight, looks down at Sherlock’s hair and hears Mycroft say, ‘the brain of a scientist or a philosopher.’ 

“I’m happy now, Sherlock.”

Sherlock turns his head and looks up at John. He watches John for a moment then smiles.

––––––––––––––––––––

Sherlock walks into the living room from the kitchen, obviously his room before that, and stops directly in front of John seated in his chair by the fireplace. "John, would you have dinner with me?" 

"Sure.” John puts his newspaper aside then stands up and pulls his mobile out of his pocket. “You think Chinese? Or we could order –" 

"That's not what I mean, John."

John glances up in confusion but it only takes him two seconds to get it. “Oh…” He stares at Sherlock then looks down at the mobile in his hand. He twists it around once – he’s picked up habits – then looks up again. "We already live together, we...." John sighs. "Is a date necessary?" 

"It’s what people do, isn't it?" 

"But we're not people, Sherlock."

"No, we are not, but perhaps I want to." 

"Go on a date?" 

"Yes." 

"You do?" 

"Yes." 

"Really?" 

"Would you like me to say it a third time?"

John laughs once breathlessly and shakes his head. They stand silently, close, an arm length away. 

"Well?" John looks up again and Sherlock keeps his eyes. "Will you?"

John scratches his finger nails against his palm and shifts his weight forward slightly. Then he nods, "yes, all right, yes."

Three hours later, John walks down the stairs from the flat wearing the navy blue out of the three suits he owns. Sherlock waits for him by the front door, maroon shirt and his same black suit; no long gray coat or scarf needed in May.

“Hello,” Sherlock says.

“Hi.” John stops in front of Sherlock and gestures with his head at the door. “What’s the plan?”

“I’ve made reservations.”

John smiles. “Ah.”

In the taxi, they sit on either side of the seat, both against their own door and window. John catches Sherlock glancing at him multiple times but that is only because John is doing the same thing. They don’t talk but it’s not awkward. The taxi pulls up in front of a restaurant with square tables outside and in, candles on each one, and red tablecloths. Sherlock talks to the host and they go inside. Within, John first notices the high ceiling then the Spanish guitar music and some couples spinning over a small dance floor in the back left corner.

Once seated near the window, bread and a dish of olive oil set to one side, Sherlock picks up the menus and hands one to John. The candle in the middle reminds John of the first time they were ever in a restaurant together and it nearly makes him laugh out loud. He fingers the menu on the table and looks across at Sherlock. Sherlock shifts in his chair, his eyes coasting quickly around the room until they rest on John again.

“So,” John smooths the edge of the tablecloth, “here we are.”

“Yes.”

“You know.” John shifts the bread basket but does not take a piece. “Dinner dates are usually to get to know a person better but…” John flicks up his hand.

Sherlock clears his throat and puts one hand on the table. “I have not been on many dates.”

John raises his eyebrows. “How many is ‘not many?’”

“Two.”

John nods. “Who with?”

“Anita Johnson and Victor Trevor. We are not here to talk about my dating past.”

John chuckles. “Okay. Sorry.”

Sherlock shakes his head. “You needn’t apologize, John.”

Before John can reply, the waiter returns with a wine menu. Sherlock takes the menu before John can and picks out a Merlot. John wonders if Sherlock’s wine knowledge is as extensive as everything else. And if it is, did that come from his own knowledge seeking or is it some byproduct of being a Holmes? The waiter takes the wine menu from Sherlock then leaves again.

Sherlock opens the menu in front of him then closes it. He looks up at John then down at the menu again.

“Usually people at least talk on dates, Sherlock,” John supplies.

Sherlock looks up and gives John a withering glare. John puts a palm up and shakes his head. 

“All right,” Sherlock sits up straighter. “What do you want to talk about?”

“Me?” John chuckles again. “You asked me on this date, Sherlock. What do you want?”

“I…” Sherlock glances at the rest of the restaurant and crosses his legs. “John, date conversation can be mutual.” Sherlock looks back and raises one eyebrow.

John frowns. “You’re evading.”

Sherlock clicks his teeth together and huffs.

John sighs and leans back in his chair. "Why are you doing this, Sherlock? A date? This whole..." John waves his hands. 

"I am trying to be proper.”

“Proper?”

“Normal,” Sherlock insists.

"Why?" 

"Because,” Sherlock leans forward, right up to the table. “John, because this is a chance I should not have had.” He breathes out slowly and slides his hands forward on the table. “I will not waste it."

John stares at Sherlock for a long moment then leans forward too. "I always liked you because of how different you were, how exciting and brilliant.” He reaches out and touches one of Sherlock’s hands. “Don't be normal for me, Sherlock."

Sherlock smiles slowly, looking down at their hands. “All right.”

John rubs a circle with his thumb against Sherlock’s hand and watches Sherlock shiver. He smirks. Sherlock clears his throat and pulls his hands back. He gives John a look then tilts his head. “We must talk about something though.”

John purses his lips. “Well…”

“Tell me about the army.”

John blinks and huffs. “Uh, really?” Sherlock nods once. “Huh,” John drums his fingers on the table. “Can’t you deduce all that?”

“I can deduce facts, not experiences.”

“I see.”

“You don’t have to.” Sherlock brushes a hand down one lapel of his jacket. “If you’d rather not.”

The wine arrives then and the waiter pours a small amount for Sherlock to try. He swallows it with none of the ‘wine connoisseur’ fineness. He nods at the bottle and the waiter pours for both of them.

“We will both have the fish special,” Sherlock says to the waiter before he can ask.

John cocks his head. “We will?”

Sherlock picks up his wine. “Allow for surprises, John.”

John picks up his wine as well. “There is never a day without them with you.”

Sherlock smiles slowly as he sips the wine. The waiter stands beside their table a moment longer looking confused. When John does not contradict the order he finally nods, scoops up their menus, and walks swiftly away. John glances at the fleeing waiter and grins. 

Then he turns back to Sherlock. “I have an idea.”

“Yes?”

“Why don’t you tell be about your first case?”

Sherlock puts down his glass. “Not Carl Powers?”

John laughs. “No, your first real case.”

“This is your first date request?”

John blinks twice and has that stomach clench which the term ‘butterflies’ never really fits with. He nods once and stabilizes himself with a hand on the table. “Yes, it is.”

“As it happens, it involved Victor."

The talk for an hour, John asking about cases and Sherlock asking about battle field surgery and interesting diagnoses. The fish arrives at some point and, though they both finish their plates, John could not have discussed much about the food later. When they are down to the last glass each from their wine bottle, Sherlock stands up and straightens his jacket.

“Are we leaving? You know we have to pay, right?” John asks.

“We’re not leaving.”

“Then?”

Sherlock holds out his hand to John. John stares for a moment then takes it. Sherlock pulls slightly and John stands up too. Sherlock turns and weaves them around some empty tables, skirting past a doe eyed couple nearly over the table they’re so close. Then John realizes where Sherlock is taking them and he stops. Sherlock jerks slightly and turns back to look at John.

John opens his mouth then closes it. He sighs. “I… you want to…”

“I thought... " Sherlock clears his throat. "Well, we have danced before, John.”

“It was at my wedding.”

Sherlock lets go of John’s hand and pulls his arm back. Sherlock looks away out over the tables, breathing slowly through his nose. John rubs his fingers together. He peers past Sherlock at the dance floor, still that guitar music playing, slow but not without some pep. Only two other couples dance, one doing a strange sort of salsa. John steps closer to Sherlock and takes his hand again.

“You’re right.” Sherlock turns back to look at John. “Let’s dance.”

“You’re sure?”

“Yes.” 

With a small smile, Sherlock leads them through the last tables and out on to the dance floor. Sherlock curves his arm around John’s side, their other hands clasped together and John’s hand by Sherlock’s shoulder. Sherlock rocks them around the floor and keeps them far enough apart that they can still see each other. The song changes, get a bit faster, and Sherlock keeps time; he rocks their hips so John laughs then turns them like a sideways cha-cha. Sherlock squeezes his hand on John’s back then dips John back and up without a problem. John laughs again and leans into Sherlock. Sherlock laughs along with John, his lips a hot burn against John’s forehead. John breathes in through his nose, smells wine and detergent and sweat on Sherlock’s skin. He squeezes Sherlock’s hand in his as Sherlock turns them again to the music. John keeps thinking the word, ‘perfect.’

Back at Baker Street, they walk upstairs and stop in the living room together.

“Thank you,” John says, twirling his keys in one hand. “I had a great time.”

“As did I.”

“So.” John shifts back and forth on his feet. He looks at his watch and puts his keys back in his pocket. “So, um…”

Sherlock steps closer then hesitates. He looks down at John, swallows once, but John does not back up. Sherlock touches the crook of John’s arm at his elbow then kisses John once. It happens so quickly, lips pressed hard but chaste, hot skin and nothing at all like the adrenaline and frenzy of last time years ago. It lasts three seconds at most, so John barely has a chance to respond before Sherlock pulls away. Yet when Sherlock lets go John gasps.

“Good night, John.”

Sherlock turns and walks away through the kitchen. John hears the door close and he takes one step back. John breathes out slowly and smiles. He runs a hand through his hair and purses his lips.

“Proper,” he whispers.

He turns, does a little skip, then climbs the stairs up to his bedroom.

––––––––––––––––––––

“Is this necessary, John?”

“I say it is.”

Sherlock sighs. “That is not a reason.”

John crouches down in front of the TV and shoots a look over his shoulder. “Yes, it is.”

Sherlock frowns and crosses his arms. John smiles and counts it a victory. He sticks the DVD in the tray then pushes it back in. Standing up again, John shifts the TV so it is more visible to the couch then walks back over. He picks up his coffee off the table and sits down beside Sherlock.

“All right, think of it this way. Pop culture knowledge is sometimes useful or even necessary for a case.”

Sherlock turns and glares. “That is a shot in the dark, John.”

“I have shot people in the dark before.”

Sherlock raises both eyebrows and the corner of his mouth quirks up. “True.”

“Plus,” John leans forward and scoops up the remote off the coffee table with his free hand, “the movie is about crime. You can try to solve how they do it first.”

Sherlock shrugs. “I already have.”

John gives Sherlock a withering look. “Oh?”

“I looked at the DVD sleeve.”

“I do not believe you.”

Sherlock shrugs again and looks nonchalant. “An elevator shaft is involved and a video loop.”

John bites the edge of his lip and shakes his head. “Now you’re just trying to impress me.”

Sherlock tilts his head and looks innocently at the blank TV screen. John keeps staring at Sherlock then holds up the remote and turns the TV on. After a few seconds the start menu beings to queue up with jazzy music to slide it in. Sherlock sighs again.

John puts down his coffee and rubs a hand on Sherlock’s thigh. “It’s two hours, you can survive.”

Sherlock’s eyes tick down to John’s hand then back up to the screen. He drums his fingers once on his arm and cocks his head. “I do hope you are not planning on making this sort of thing a more regular occurrence?”

“Oh, you enjoy some of them. You just pretend you don’t.”

“ _Goldfinger_ was certainly amusing in its plot holes and grandiose.”

John chuckles. “Plus, if you’re dating me, you’re going to have to let me choose what we do on the rare occasion you are not running us both around on a, I will admit, thrilling case. I'm not saying we'll watch films every night or even often, so relax.”

Sherlock turns his head toward John and clears this throat. “Dating? As in continuous?”

“I…” John lowers the remote. “Isn’t that what you want?”

Sherlock bites the inside of his cheek. “Is that what you want?”

“Yeah.” John laughs. “I wouldn’t have said it if I didn’t.”

“Ah.” Sherlock nods and smiles slowly. “Good.”

John rubs his hand across Sherlock’s thigh again and grins. “Good. And now we are going to watch _Ocean’s 11_. Enjoy.”

“You’re as bad as Mycroft.”

John snorts. “Now you’re just being mean.”

Sherlock ‘humphs.’ John holds up the remote and clicks ‘play.’ John puts down the remote and picks up his coffee again. He scoots over and leans against Sherlock. Sherlock does not uncross his arms but John feels the tension ease.

“You know, you didn’t even have to ask me on a date, Sherlock.” He looks out of the corner of his eye at Sherlock. “I’m already here.”

Sherlock smiles.

––––––––––––––––––––

Sherlock stands just outside the caution tape within the bank lobby. Checking his watch, John sees that it is in fact two AM after all. He yawns and watches Sherlock pace a few times before he stops. 

He turns to John and points at the body. “Craig was supposed to be our murderer.”

John rubs a hand over his eyes. “Yeah.”

“Not another victim.”

“Yeah.”

Sherlock crouches down and tilts his head. He pulls out his small magnifying glass and inspects something on the floor. Only one of the responding officers knew who they were but luckily, at two AM, they did not seem to mind much Sherlock prowling around, as long as he stayed outside the caution tape. Surprisingly, Sherlock put up little fuss to this enforcement of the rules.

Sherlock grunts. “First choice, best choice and now…”

“Was it maybe a frame up before?”

Sherlock scoffs. “Hardly.”

“So what then?”

Sherlock jumps back up to standing. “Yes, what, exactly.” Sherlock clicks his magnifying glass shut and puts it back in his pocket. “If not Craig then who? We have a solid path which leads to him so the result could be a whole new case, murdering the murderer. Unless, of course, there was something missing in our initial progress.” Sherlock huffs again. “And if I could get just a bit closer there could be more data,” Sherlock snaps the last bit in the general direction of the officers.

Two of them look up but none rise to the bait.

Sherlock paces again before he stops in front of John. “Murder one or murder of murderer or perhaps…”

“Sherlock, relax a minute.”

“Relax? John, this case should have taken a day and now it is stretching on. I cannot decide if I am enjoying it or not. We may have to go straight back to the beginning, recheck all the facts." Sherlock turns abruptly and rushes toward the front doors of the building.

“Sherlock!”

“Ah ha!” Sherlock snaps as John catches up to him outside. “Lara, our one witness. There were some lies in her truths.” He turns to John as he keeps walking backward on the sidewalk. “One of those lies could be bigger than I suspected. I could –“

“Sherlock.” John grabs Sherlock’s arm with one hand, pulls Sherlock close and kisses him. Sherlock makes a surprised noise and kisses John back. “Shh,” John says against Sherlock’s lips, “you’re going too fast again.”

Sherlock smiles and does not move away. “Is there such a thing?”

John chuckles, kissing Sherlock again. “Yes.”

Sherlock touches John’s hair, kisses John harder. John pulls Sherlock against him and drags his tongue across Sherlock's teeth, kisses slower.

Sherlock hums back in his throat. “You are trying to distract me.”

John kisses the corner of Sherlock’s mouth. “Well, you see, it is two AM and I would much rather be sleeping.”

“Ah.”

John leans back. “Can you wait six or seven more hours before dragging us around the city? Please?”

Sherlock clicks his teeth. “Is this a technique you are planning to use more often to impede my investigations?”

“Yes.”

“This could be a problem.”

John chuckles. “This is what happens when you take someone out on multiple dates.”

“You are the one who confirmed ‘continuous.’”

John nods very seriously. “Good deduction.”

Sherlock kisses John once more then rests his forehead against John’s. He sighs. “Five hours.” John grins. “Only five.”

“I can live with that.”

“Good.” Sherlock leans away. “And you are sleeping in my bed.”

John’s mouth falls open as Sherlock whirls around him, grabs John’s hand and pulls him along down the street.

––––––––––––––––––––

John sits with his head resting on his arms on a table in one of Barts’ labs. Across from him, Sherlock is slowly taking apart a white leather purse. He’s already burnt a bit of the leather and lined up all the purse’s contents between them. The most amusing item was the rubber duck, though Sherlock favored the lipstick for ‘science’ and no doubt DNA.

However, they have also been awake for thirty-four hours now. Sherlock may still be moving and detecting at peak capacity but John is nursing a headache and unresponsive eyelids. Sherlock seems to be big on the 'no sleep' cases lately.

“Here.” John blinks slowly to focus his vision and sees Molly next to him holding a mug.

“Hmm?”

She smiles. “Coffee.”

John sighs and sits up. “You read my mind.”

Molly hands him the mug. “I try.” She glances at Sherlock then back to John. “How long you been up this time?”

“My whole life.”

Molly giggles. “More than a day then, I take it?”

“Yeah.”

“Have no fear, John,” Sherlock interrupts, “we are minutes away.”

“From sleep?”

“A solution.”

John and Molly glance at each other. John sips the coffee and sighs. “That is not reassuring, Sherlock.”

Sherlock looks up from his microscope. “I promise when we have located this woman you may sleep a full twenty-four hours if you so wish.”

“Oh well, thank you.” John yawns and puts the coffee mug down so he doesn’t drop it. “Will you make me breakfast after?”

“Yes.”

John sits up straight. “What, really?”

“What makes you think I cannot cook?”

“Um, because you never have?”

Sherlock smirks and looks back into his microscope. “Hardly conclusive evidence, John.”

“I’ll have to find out then when you make breakfast.” John closes his eyes. “Please say bacon will be involved.”

Sherlock chuckles. “If you insist.”

“So, it’s finally happened?” Molly asks.

John opens his eyes again. Molly, still standing next to his stool, looks at Sherlock with a small smile on her face. John glances at Sherlock to see him actually looking back at her, not too absorbed in his microscope anymore.

“Yes,” Sherlock says.

Molly nods. “Okay. Good.” She looks down at John and brushes some hair from her eyes. “Good luck.”

John scoffs a laugh at the same time that Sherlock sighs. Out of the corner of his eye, he sees Sherlock cutting off another piece of leather and picking up tweezers. Molly nudges John’s coffee mug toward him.

“Drink up.” She starts to turn away then stops and looks back at John. “Glad to have you both where you belong.”

John watches Molly walk out through the lab doors, short hair bobbing, and wishes he knew her better.

––––––––––––––––––––

John never saw Sherlock as a very sexual person in the past. Even the interactions with Irene, though charged with tension, did not appear to be anything which would ever lead to, as Irene put it, Sherlock begging for mercy. However, Sherlock never ceases to surprise John. He thinks, perhaps, Sherlock only feels these things for the right person at the right time because, despite Mycroft’s assumptions, this is not Sherlock’s first and only run around the track.

Sherlock laughs more. Sherlock is quiet more. Sherlock touches more. Sherlock wants to be touched more. Sherlock likes to kiss John’s hair line, between his ear and his eye as though it’s a button to push (and it is now). Sherlock smiles and it is something new entirely.

He traces patterns over John’s skin, never the same twice and only Sherlock knows what they are; circles over John’s chest, curlicues down his arm, distorted amperstamps over his shoulder scar, connecting hexagons down his leg, treble clefs around his neck, or swirls in his palm leading up each fingertip. They give John chills every time.

John cannot keep his hands out of Sherlock’s hair. He never realized just how thick it was before, how much of it there was. He could practically lose his hands in it, curls to tangle up his fingers. He wishes he could think of something better to call it than ‘soft’ but once it’s in his hands he forgets about thinking.

“You needn’t pull it out,” Sherlock gasps.

John kisses him, pushes him into the mattress. “Like you’d notice.”

Sherlock is larger than John – and that’s a change – not so much in weight but in height. Obviously, anyone can see how much taller Sherlock is than he. Yet with Sherlock in his lap, Sherlock’s hands braced against the wall, John has to strain up so far to see the expression on Sherlock’s face. John feels as though he’s always looking up no matter which way they roll about the bed or which way Sherlock turns him with strong hands. He knows Sherlock could hold him down and keep him there, would keep him there, but not to John’s detriment.

“Why do you have to be so bloody tall?”

“Does it bother you so much?” Sherlock whispers as his fingers creep slowly up John’s inner thigh.

John breathes slowly and drags his nails along Sherlock’s lower back. “Couldn’t drop a few centimeters?”

“No, John.” Sherlock’s fingers creep further, sliding down so John breathes in sharply. “I can’t.”

“Arsehole.”

Sherlock chuckles quietly. “If you insist.”

When Sherlock kisses him, lies over him or under him in bed, when his lips touch Sherlock's he thinks of nothing else, wants to be nowhere else.

It feels like such a zigzag, Sherlock then Mary and Sherlock again. Mary was not a way station on his path to Sherlock, not in any sense. The two were so different, except perhaps in the way they argued, one would be surprised the same man loved them both. Yet now, when Sherlock opens his eyes beside John in the morning, it feels just like Mary and somehow that is okay. 

Now he wants to see Sherlock’s face, his eyes, and wants to pull Sherlock close to kiss him awake.

––––––––––––––––––––

John sits at the table in the kitchen, blessedly free of any lab equipment, and watches Sherlock at the stove. Sherlock moves potatoes around with a spatula in a frying pan. He shifts to the side and picks up a cup of onions, pouring them into the pan. The oil sizzles and Sherlock stirs the mix around with the spatula again. He rest the edge of the spatula on the pan then picks up the cup and throws it into the sink.

John snorts and picks up his mug of coffee. “Try not to break anything.”

Sherlock shoots a look over his shoulder at John. “It was plastic.”

“Still.”

Sherlock frowns and repeats, “it was plastic.”

John holds up a hand, “All right,” and sips his coffee. 

Sherlock turns back to the stove and pulls another frying pan down from where it hangs against the wall. He pours in a small amount of oil, swirls it around then puts it on a stove eye.

“Eggs.”

“Oh, yes please,” John says.

Sherlock looks back at John then points at the refrigerator. “Eggs.”

“Oh.” John stands up and walks over to the fridge. He opens it, is not attacked by anything somewhat living, then picks up the carton of eggs off the top shelf. He walks back over and puts the eggs on the counter beside Sherlock. “Eggs.”

“Thank you.”

John smiles and sits back down at the table, reunited with his coffee. Sherlock keeps moving back and forth in front of the stove, eggs added to the other pan and spices added to the potatoes. John leans his cheek on his hand and watches. For some reason it reminds him of Sherlock playing the violin.

“I still can’t believe you are making breakfast,” John says after a few minutes.

Sherlock chuckles. “Odd as you are physically watching me do it.”

“It just doesn’t seem like you.”

Sherlock flashes John a look. “Why? Because you previously thought me incapable?”

“Because you usually use the kitchen for science experiments.”

“Cooking is just like science, John. You have a recipe to follow like steps in an experiment. Sometimes wrong steps lead to new and beneficial discoveries, other times disasters. In the normal course you come up with the result you expected to make by following each step in turn. So, really...” He turns the heat off of the potatoes. “It is exactly the same.”

John purses his lips. “Do you eat many of your experiments?”

“When they involve food.”

“You haven’t done that before.”

“I used to.”

John scoffs. “When?”

“Before my parents would permit me proper scientific equipment.”

John sits up straight. “You were a cooking kid?”

Sherlock pulls a large plate from the cabinet and pours the potatoes on to it, scraping the pan with his spatula. Then he turns around and puts the plate in the middle of the table. He smirks at John. “Do you think Mycroft got fat all on his own?”

John laughs once. “You know he’s not really fat, right?”

Sherlock laughs once back. “Oh, he was.”

John ‘hmms’ and picks up one fried potato with his fingers and pops it in his mouth. John picks up his mug then suddenly puts it down again. “Wait, are you saying you bake?”

“Not in a long time.”

“You are really warping my view of you right now.”

Sherlock only makes a ‘hmm’ noise and adds cheese to the eggs in the frying pan. John picks up his mug again and wonders if Sherlock ever made pie or perhaps cake? After another minute, Sherlock turns off the heat, gets out more plates, then sets an omelet right in front of John.

“No bacon today, I apologize. It appears it was… consumed by something in the refrigerator.”

John stares at the omelet then looks up at Sherlock. “I’ll survive.”

Sherlock nods then sits down across from John. There is no omelet for him but he does put some potatoes on to his plate and has a cup of tea. Where the tea came from, John does not know as he never saw Sherlock make it. John tucks in to his food and for several minutes neither of them speak. John is aware that Sherlock is watching him eat, leaving his own potatoes untouched, but John supposes it is only fair as he watched Sherlock make it.

“This is lovely,” he says half way through his omelet. “Thank you.”

Sherlock only nods in appreciation.

“I suppose I should have gotten on this ‘significant other of Sherlock Holmes’ horse earlier if it meant breakfast like this.”

Sherlock chuckles. “If you’d like to think that.”

John raises his eyebrows. “Are you saying this is a one-time deal?”

“No.”

John smiles and picks up his coffee. “Good.”

Sherlock shrugs. “Perhaps it is just a ‘boyfriend,’” he sneers slightly at the word, “special arrangement.”

“I don't think you exactly mean that.”

“True.”

“Still,” John clears his throat and looks down at his plate. “I am glad that we’re…” He looks up again. “Well, us.”

Sherlock smiles. “This has all been happening at different time for both of us, John. It only seems now that we have matched up.”

John smiles back, slides his foot forward under the table to touch Sherlock’s then spears a potato with his fork. “Good thing too.”

––––––––––––––––––––

John lets the pub door fall closed behind him and strikes a very uncharacteristic pose, arms out to the side indicating Sherlock. “I told you I could do it.”

Greg starts laughing immediately while Molly grins and claps. 

Sherlock frowns at John and starts to turn around but John grabs his coat. “Oh, calm down. It’s Molly’s birthday. It is supposed to be a bit fun. And look, you are being a good friend.”

“Am I?”

“Trust me.”

Sherlock sighs and walks forward instead toward Greg and Molly at the bar. John smiles to himself then trots after Sherlock. Sherlock sits down beside Molly and feigns a smile. Molly giggles and shakes her head. Greg hands John a beer and then a drink to Sherlock.

“I guessed and went with whiskey, that work?”

“Fine.”

Greg shrugs. “Well, you didn’t seem like a beer man.”

“I am a ‘nothing’ man, Lestrade.”

John and Greg snort with amusement while Molly clears her throat into her drink. Sherlock gives them each their own withering look. He takes a sip of his drink and hisses quietly. He looks at Greg and nods. Greg pumps his fist half seriously in the air. Molly laughs and shoves his shoulder gently.

“Happy birthday, Molly,” John says then elbows Sherlock.

Sherlock sighs. “Happy birthday, though your actual birthday is still not for two days.”

Molly chuckles. “Well that’s a good present; Sherlock Holmes knowing the actual day of my birth.”

“Didn’t you used you be timid?” Sherlock growls.

Molly only wiggles her eyebrows and almost doesn’t blush. Greg sighs and swigs some of his beer, wrapping an arm around Molly’s shoulders. “Right, let’s get to drinking, shall we?”

John tilts his head. “Too much crime?”

“Too much paperwork.”

Molly shakes her head and kisses Greg’s cheek. He looks down at her and touches her hair with the arm around her shoulders. She grins then holds up two fingers and points at her eyes. “Focus.”

“Yes, ma’am.”

“Oh god,” Sherlock groans and gulps down some of his drink.

John clenches a hand into the small of Sherlock’s back. “Shh.”

“Birthday celebrations are ridiculous,” Sherlock hisses back at John.

“Remind me not to get you anything for yours then.”

Sherlock scoffs. “Did you already have plans?”

“Yes.”

Sherlock opens his mouth, stops, then cocks an eyebrow. “Really?”

John only grins mysteriously.

“So,” Molly finishes her beer in a sudden swoop and knocks the bottle back down on the bar top, “I promise not to keep you long as Greg and I are going to dinner but for the next hour let’s talk about something other than…” she gives Sherlock a look.

“By all means, Molly, I shall mention only your charms and pretend I see no flaws.”

She smiles. “That is all I ask.”

Greg kisses her hair. “What flaws?”

“Well –“

John whacks an arm across Sherlock’s chest. “None what so ever.”

Sherlock shuts his mouth. He looks up at John and raises his eyebrows. John reaches out and pushes a curl back from Sherlock’s forehead. Sherlock’s eyes tick up to his hair then back down. He sets his glass on the bar top and smiles at the floor.

Molly chuckles. “It’s amazing.”

“What?” Greg asks.

John and Molly both laugh once. Sherlock shakes his head and waves a hand over the bar top. “Did you not want to have drinks?” He holds up his glass and knocks back the rest of the whiskey. “There. Is this event continuing?”

Greg stares. “Who are you?”

Molly sits down on the stool beside Sherlock and waves a hand behind her at the bar tender to get more drinks. John chugs some of his beer then leans closer to Sherlock and touches his arm, “mind getting me another?”

“If you insist.”

“I do.”

“Hmm.” Sherlock squeezes John’s fingers on his arm then nods.

“Oh, Sherlock!” Molly says as John stands up straight again. “I had in a body recently I think you’d find interesting.”

John takes that as his cue to cut out of the conversation and let Sherlock actually find interest in Molly’s birthday drinks. Much as Sherlock may bemoan socializing, there are topics he has in common with certain people.

“So,” John turns to Greg. “How are things with you and Molly, looks good, yeah?” Then John realizes Greg is staring at him. Greg looks at Sherlock then John, then Sherlock again and back to John. John frowns. “You all aright?”

“God, it’s actually happened.”

John glances at Sherlock then back again. “What?”

“You!” Greg points with his beer between John and Sherlock.

John huffs and grins. “Oh well, yeah.” He shakes his head. “You didn’t know that? You know it’s been almost two months.”

Greg rubs his forehead. “I am going to get a migraine.”

“John.”

John turns to Sherlock who holds out a beer. He glances at Greg once – eyes doing that ‘deduction’ slide – then flicks back to John. He rolls his eyes as John takes the beer. John grins and makes a ‘shh’ face before turning back.

“Do I need to get you a cold compress?” John jokes.

Greg shakes his head. “I just… well, not that you two weren’t…”

John tilts his head. “Really, Greg? Come on.”

“You were kind of the ladies’ man for a bit there.”

John snorts. “Yeah, like five years or more ago.”

“I meant –“

John stops him with a sharp look and Greg clears his throat. He bites his lip and taps the edge of his bottle against his bottom teeth. “Huh…” He tips the bottle up and drinks some of his beer. “Time flies.”

“Not really.”

"Just….” Greg sighs. “I mean, don't you miss Mary?" John frowns and Greg waves a hand. “I’m not saying that you can’t move on… only, well, I don’t know, you always seemed so ‘one and only’ once Mary came along.”

"Well, maybe.” John shrugs. “I loved Mary but I missed Sherlock when I was with her too.” John takes another sip of his beer and glances at the floor of the bar. “I guess I will always love them both.” He looks up at Greg. “But that’s okay.”

Greg nods slowly. “So, not one and only but… two and only?”

John laughs and clinks his bottle against Greg’s. Greg grins back at him and rocks on his heels. John drops his hand and wags a finger at Greg. “You are going to enjoy this too much, I can tell.”

Greg nods. “Yeah, probably.”

––––––––––––––––––––

John sits on the couch with one of the two medical journals he subscribes to in his hand. Sherlock sits perpendicular to him with his back against John’s shoulder and feet up on the opposite arm of the couch. Sherlock reads a book which says something about ‘architecture’ and ‘greater London’ in the overly long title. John isn’t sure if Sherlock is reading the book for study or to find geographical errors. Every now and then Sherlock ‘hmms’ or ‘tsks’ as he turns a page. It’s still hard to tell where Sherlock stands on the book’s intellectual quality. John expects a speech about it later. For now, they sit in near silence, both reading.

John reaches the end of his article, new research in neuroscience he does not envy the continued work on, and closes the magazine. Sherlock turns another page, only about two thirds of the way through. John watches Sherlock, one knee bent up now to hold the book in place. John slides his arm up from between them and drapes it over Sherlock, across his chest. Sherlock shifts to the right slightly and slouches down more into the cushions to position himself against John’s chest. John angles himself in more, so Sherlock’s shoulder doesn’t dig into his chest, and they both lie still again.

“So, do you like it?” John asks.

“Like is a strong word.”

John chuckles and traces a circle on Sherlock’s t-shirt. “Tolerate?”

“I have a hundred pages to go; we shall see.”

John rests his forehead on Sherlock’s curls and ‘hmms’ once. He closes his eyes and spreads out his fingers on Sherlock’s chest; fabric rubs gently against skin. He inhales the smell of shampoo and dust. Sherlock must have been searching the building attic again where he keeps copies of cold cases stolen from Scotland Yard. 

“Do you ever read fiction?” John asks, imagining a child Sherlock reading _Robinson Crusoe_ and _Gulliver’s Travels_ while wearing a pirate hat.

“There is Jane Austen on the book shelf.”

John chuckles. “That’s not an answer.”

“When you ask a silly question, John...”

John smiles and inhales again, a smell that is indescribable and belongs only to Sherlock. John turns his head, cheek against Sherlock’s hair and opens his eyes once more. The sun is nearly down by now and street lamps battle for light dominance through the window.

Sherlock closes his book. “John?”

“Yes?”

“Dinner?”

John taps his fingers on Sherlock’s chest. “Would we have to move?”

“Probably.”

“Then no.”

Sherlock chuckles quietly and slides his hand over John's.

––––––––––––––––––––

Sherlock and John run down an alley, three members of a drug gang chasing behind them. A shot hits the wall above John’s head and he ducks instinctively.

“Lucky you’re short, John,” Sherlock says as he grabs John’s collar and drags them to the left.

“Ha ha – Christ!” John shouts as another gunshot hits the wall behind them.

“We’re almost there,” Sherlock gasps as he pulls his mobile out of his pocket.

“There’s no guarantee that –”

“Have faith, John.”

“But it –” Another shot and an angered shout comes from behind them. “They’re gaining!”

Sherlock laughs. “Then run faster!”

“I hate you!”

“No, you don’t.” Then Sherlock shoves John down a different alley. “Go, go!”

They break apart and John pulls his gun from the back of his pants. He does not have time to stop and shoot back but hell if isn’t going to be ready. He hears the men behind them falter for a minute, one hitting some rubbish bins. Soon, however, the sound of running feet continues. It sounds like just one on him; the others must have gone after Sherlock. John hangs a left down a small side street, narrowly missing a car. He checks his watch and hopes that Greg is there in time.

John hits the main road, mostly deserted at four AM, and cuts to the right quickly. The minute the man following him appears, John slams the butt of his gun into the man’s head. He goes down fast and cracks his head on the street. John stoops quickly, checks for a pulse and finds one, though the man certainly has a concussion. John stands up straight again, gun in hand but he does not see Sherlock or Greg anywhere.

“Come on…”

Then he hears shouting, another gun shot. He peeks down the alley and sees Sherlock hit a wall. He skids, nearly falls but just barely keeps his feet. John turns and puts his back to the wall on the outside of the alley. He listens to the feet coming closer.

He hears Sherlock shout, “right behind me!”

“Duck!” John shouts and turns into the mouth of the alley.

Sherlock slides down and under John’s arm just as the man on Sherlock’s heels gets a gun and fist to the nose. John hears it crack and the man falls with a shout. John hits him again and hears the man’s gun clatter on the street.

John cocks his gun and points it at the man on the ground. “Don’t move.”

“John –“ Sherlock starts and suddenly someone hits John in the back. His gun flies away and his knees crack on the ground.

The man he had been guarding jumps up and tries to kick at John’s face. John rolls just in time and bangs into the alley wall. He heaves himself up to crouching and dodges a fist. The man hits the wall instead and groans in pain. John jumps up, ignores the pain in his knees and looks for Sherlock. He sees a flash of the third man slamming Sherlock into the wall just as his own target punches John in the face.

“Fuck.” John skids and punches back into the man’s stomach. 

The man stumbles backward and John leaps to the side to grab his fallen gun. He gets the gun in hand just in time for the drug goon to step on John’s hand. John groans and grits his teeth together.

“Don’t think so,” the man says, grinning down at John. “Not this time.”

Then abruptly his mouth falls open, he wobbles and falls forward onto the ground, just missing John. John stares, pulls his hand free and looks up at Sherlock. Sherlock holds up a gun – one of the drug ring members' – and twirls is around once in his hand.

“A useful weapon even when not fired.” He grins and drops the gun.

Behind Sherlock, police cars start to appear. John hears people running, Greg shouting something, and John smiles so wide he may burst. Sherlock holds out a hand, which John takes, and Sherlock pulls him up. John wraps his arms around Sherlock, practically jumps up into his arms, and kisses him. John laughs and kisses Sherlock again.

“You are insane!” John barks another laugh. “I cannot believe we –“

Sherlock kisses John back and cuts him off, hand in John’s hair. “I know, John, do be quiet.”

John laughs against Sherlock’s lips, commotion and blue lights flashing around them. He holds Sherlock close, feels the rush, the victory, the day won and tangles a hand in Sherlock’s hair kissing him one more time. It’s dangerous, Sherlock is impossible and mad, and John is so elated for every single second of it. He never wants to let Sherlock go.

Sherlock pulls back slightly with his hands settled at the small of John’s back. “Are you happy, John?”

John smiles slowly and kisses the corner of Sherlock’s mouth. “As long as you are with me, Sherlock.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> And now the final chapter, this trilogy that I never knew was going to become this, all comes to an end. Thank you to everyone who has helped and read, I have adored writing this!


End file.
